


House of Bones

by Razzaroo



Series: HoB series (working title) [1]
Category: Black Cat
Genre: Alternate Ending, Based on the manga, Gen, jeez that's more characters than I thought, where the bad guys have won
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1721018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/pseuds/Razzaroo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chronos has fallen and Creed has won. The Chronos Numbers are scattered across multiple cities, being hunted one by one. Unlikely and uneasy alliances are formed as those who are free strive to regain what has been lost. Alternate ending, set in the mangaverse. Genre and rating may change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes a revolution in order to establish a dictatorship. **George Orwell.**_

* * *

 

Fire. Fire was how it all ended; fire was how the world was changed forever. Fire was how Chronos ended.

Kranz had been with Baldor when it happened and had been forced to leave him behind when it ended.

His hands still feel sticky with blood and he rubs them on his knees, trying to clean them off on the fabric of his trousers. He has no idea where he is; he’d been brought in and dumped in what is probably a cell without a word being spoken to him. His helmet is gone, probably destroyed. He wonders if any of the others are here, if they’re even still alive.

His throat constricts at the thought that Baldor probably didn’t survive, not with that knife wound. Though it would probably have been a kinder death than one by public execution which is surely the one Kranz faces.

He sighs and leans his head against the wall; at least he won’t be able to _see_ anyone. It’s a small mercy. A Chronos Number should be killed only in defence of Chronos and its goals, not shot like an animal in front of a crowd.

There’s the sound of a door opening but Kranz makes no move to acknowledge it. Heavy footsteps move towards him and he’s pulled to his feet by a pair of strong hands that dig into his upper arms and are sure to leave bruises.

“Come on, Number.” The voice is gruff but muffled, “The boss has a plan for you.”

Kranz smirks, “Your boss has plans for everyone.”

The hands tighten their hold on him as he’s shoved out into what is probably a hallway. There’s no sound except for their footsteps. It bothers him; he can’t discern anything about his surroundings if there’s no sound. He likes the quiet but complete silence is almost disturbing.

He’s escorted through a door that hisses as it opens before his head is yanked downwards and a needle is pushed into the back of his neck. He panics and manages to pull away but his legs give out underneath him and his knees hit the ground hard. Someone tuts behind him and withdraws the needle, discarding the empty syringe.

“My, that works faster than I thought.” This voice was cold and smooth, “What a pleasant surprise.”

Kranz is hauled to his feet again and forced forward on shaky legs. He’s pushed down and strapped onto a table. Everything’s gone numb from the injection and no matter what he does, he can’t make any move to break out of the restraints.

He hears the snap of rubber gloves and he has to swallow down his fear; he hasn’t been afraid in a long time and the feeling itself unnerves him. It’s a cold feeling that makes him shake before finally settling in the pit of his stomach, like a heavy lead weight. The last time he’d felt it, he’d been on the ground, his hands covering his face and damaged eyes.

Of course, the men who’d blinded him didn’t have a chance to touch him again; a furious Baldor was something like a one man army. And Kranz had woken up in hospital a week later with bandages covering his face and Baldor slumped in a chair at his side.

There’s no such comfort or security this time.

“All right, we’ll get started now. I’ll be your doctor for this morning.” It’s the same cold voice as before, sounding amused, “Feel free to call me, well, Doctor.”

The doctor chuckles at that before slipping a thick strip of leather between Kranz’s teeth. He brushes Kranz’s hair away from his eyes and there’s the sound of a surgical cart being wheeled forwards.

“I’m not sure if you’ll feel any pain from this,” the Doctor continues, “But if you do, bite down on that and not on your tongue.”

Kranz flinches at the touch of the cold rubber gloves at his eyes, gently holding his eyelids open to examine his eyes. The hands move away and he hears a button being pressed down on a tape recorder.

“This patient,” the Doctor says, tearing some surgical tape and using it to tape Kranz’s eyelids open, “Is suffering from blindness caused by an unknown attack with an unknown substance.”

There’s a pause and Kranz can feel his eyes starting to water. The Doctor sighs and something is set down on the cart before the Doctor starts speaking again.

“This patient is completely blind in both eyes,” the Doctor continues, “Hopefully, this can be remedied through the use of regenerative nanomachines. Previous tests have shown that the nanomachines these are based on can assist in replacing tissue and bone that has been completely lost. Considering the capabilities already displayed by the nanomachines I’ve worked with, I’m confident that these will be able to reverse the damage here.”

Kranz keeps his breathing as even as possible, concentrating on that rather than the thought of nanomachines. The idea is unsettling at the very least. He knows what nanomachines can do, what they had already been used for.

The cold hands are back and he feels that sense of unease that comes from someone looming over him. Dread has settled in the pit of his stomach like a lump of ice. The feeling is almost alien to him.

“The nanomachines will be applied in a liquid solution,” the Doctor says, “Via an eyedropper.”

The liquid that drips onto Kranz’s left eye is cold and he instinctively flinches, trying to blink it away. The Doctor tuts and more drops follow before it’s repeated on his right eye. He tries to lift his hands to rub at his eyes but, no matter what he does, his limbs remain unresponsive.

The table moves, making a mechanical whirring sound, so he’s propped up in a sitting position. The Doctor removes the surgical tape and covers Kranz’s eyes with a soft blindfold.

“I’ll be back to see your progress in the morning,” the Doctor says, “The effects of the injection should will have worn off before then; we’ll leave that leather in just in case.”

Kranz heard the medical cart being wheeled out of the room and footsteps walking away from him. The door opens again and the cart is taken away after a few murmured words.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” the Doctor said, the tone of his voice making Kranz grind his teeth in annoyance, “Sleep well.”

The door hissed shut again and Kranz was left on his own, strapped to a table and with prickling in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've finally posted this to AO3 after having it on FF.net for months. And over a year after posting the related oneshot.
> 
> I'll get this up to speed with the version on FF.net and then try to update both at the same time but it may slip my mind to post here sometimes. Apologies in case that happens.


	2. The Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we rejoin the world outside of the Apostles walls and start our heroes (?) on their quest.

_"Where you are going now," Schmendrick answered, "few will mean you anything but_ _evil, and a friendly heart — however foolish — may be as welcome as water one day. Take me with you, for laughs, for luck, for the unknown. Take me with you."_

****

* * *

 

 

The news is nothing but bad news lately. Baldor leans against the headboard behind him, one hand covering the still-raw scar on his stomach, listening as the newsreader reels off the latest headlines. Rinslet Walker’s in the en suite bathroom,  showering.

“ _The Shooting Star units of the Apostles of the Star are still working on weeding out the remnants of Chronos from the city,”_ the newsreader is saying, her face impassive, “ _Just last week, they arrested a group of Erasers in an old warehouse in the industrial district. They will face trial on Friday.”_

Rinslet comes out of the bathroom in a dark red dressing gown and a towel around her shoulders. She sees that he’s absently massaging the scar and she frowns.

“Does that still hurt?” she asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“No,” he says, scowling, “Where were you?”

Rinslet stares at him, surprised, “On a job. We need to get you out of the city and that can’t happen without funds. And I went to The Hanging Tree to talk to a contact there.”

Baldor doesn’t reply. The newsreader is still talking about Chronos and Rinslet catches a glimpse of a familiar face on the screen. She reaches to turn up the volume and sits cross-legged alongside Baldor, twisting the hem of the dressing gown in her hands.

“… _the Chronos Numbers in particular should be approached with caution as they are extremely dangerous. The current whereabouts of the remaining Numbers are unknown but the Shooting Star units have made it their priority to find these people and remove them.”_

The screen behind the newsreader is displaying the wanted posters of the Numbers that the Apostles know are alive. Baldor’s surprised to see himself on the screen; he’d assumed that the Apostles thought he was dead. Rinslet is more occupied with the fact that Jenos Hazard is listed as a threat.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Rinslet says when the newsreader moves onto the next story.

“If you’re thinking of us leaving so you can look for him,” Baldor says, looking up at the ceiling, “You must also want to play a game of treasure hunt against the Apostles. They more than likely have an idea of where he is. And the others too. Leave looking for the other Numbers to me and hide yourself somewhere safe to ride out this whole mess.”

“You’re not giving him enough credit,” Rinslet says, “They’re probably all far from here by now. And I think you might be underestimating me as well.”

“And _you’re_ underestimating your enemy. Creed’s a persistent bastard; if he wants all the Chronos Numbers hunted down, he’ll do his best to make sure it happens. It might take longer than he’d like but, from his point of view, he has all the time in the world. And he’s got his informants and allies in other towns. You’re smart, why aren’t you thinking of this?”

She gives him a withering look, “I _did._ But being optimistic tends to be better for my moods lately.”

The sirens are sounding outside, signalling the start of curfew and the “all-clear” for their part of town. Rinslet sighs and draws the curtains, turning off the news and switching on the radio instead. It’s easier to tune into the channels that don’t support the Apostles on the radio; the broadcasts come from other cities and are usually poor but Creed doesn’t bother to police them, not yet.

The program that comes through the speakers crackles and Rinslet adjusts the aerial to get a better signal. The presenter is broadcasting from Cashmere, presenting the news about the situation with the advancing Apostles.

“So, do you have any ideas on where you want to go?” Rinslet asks. Baldor looks at her, one eyebrow raised.

“No?” he says, “Why?”

“Well, since you’re healed up now,” Rinslet says, “We can get you out of here. Is there anywhere you’re particularly fond of?”

“No,” he says again, “Chronos is gone and I have no home to go back to; the Apostles probably got to it already.”

The pair of them lapse into an awkward pause. The radio continues in the background, the signal occasionally faltering, causing the broadcast to be interrupted by white noise and crackling. The news coming from Cashmere paints a picture almost as hopeless as the one on the news station; the rumours of pockets of resistance do very little to improve it.

 “We could go to Cashmere,” Baldor says eventually, “It’s a good enough start.”

“You don’t think the Apostles will lock onto that as target?” Rinslet asks, “It is, well, _was_ a city under Chronos’s control, yes?”

“Well, yeah, but there’s nothing there. No industry, no big headquarters, not even a big amount of crime.”

He stands and Rinslet notes how he hunches over slightly, curling in as if trying to protect where he’d been stabbed. She turns away and peers through the gap in the curtains down at the street below; one of the Apostles’ trucks is going down the street, ensuring that the curfew is being obeyed.

Baldor stretches and the hem of his shirt lifts, showing the angry red scar tissue that runs from just above his hipbone to just under his navel. There’s a sharp twinge of pain and he hisses, hunching over again to try and ease it. Rinslet looks at him, her expression almost pitying.

“I’ll see if Annette has something for you,” she says, moving towards the door, “Painkillers or a heatpack or something like that.”

“Don’t bother,” he says, stepping away from her when she moves to check on the scar, “It comes and goes. When did you want to leave?”

Rinslet purses her lips but doesn’t say anything about him shying away from her; although she’s used to it, she’d almost hoped that they had some form of trust with each other, shaky and fragile like a bridge built of ice.

“We can go tomorrow,” she says, tucking her hands behind her back to show that she won’t move to touch him again, “When they sound the last all clear. And I’m staying with you; I have someone I want to find as well.”

He sighs, “Whatever you say.”

Rinslet’s surprised; she’d expected a lot more resistance from him. He’d resisted her cleaning his injuries, resisted the doctor Annette had brought in to treat him. The doctor had walked away with a few bruises and a substantial bonus for his troubles while Annette had told Rinslet that she could leave the care of a bad-tempered Number out of Annette’s business next time; she didn’t want to need to replace any more furniture.

“No arguments? Are you feeling all right?”

Baldor stares at her, his harsh gaze making her uncomfortable, before he replies, “I owe you my life. You’re the one who found me and brought me here. You’re the one who made sure I didn’t die from bleeding out or infection. Without you, I’d be six feet under; do you really think I have any room to refuse you anything?”

He looks surprised at his own words and he flushes red before he glares at her, “And don’t you even _think_ of repeating that to _anyone_. That stays between us, understand?”

Rinslet crosses her heart, smiling a little, “I promise; not a word, so long as you make sure not to leave me behind. You never know; you might just end up needing me again.”


	3. The Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we return to behind the Apostles' walls and bear witness to some unlikely conversations

_The cat yawned again.  “Near and far, far and near,” he murmured, “They are within reach of your lady’s eyes, but almost out of reach of her memory. They are coming closer, and they are going away.”_

* * *

 

Kranz can’t remember the last time he was outside of the Apostles’ walls. He’s watched constantly, by Creed’s foot soldiers, by the other Apostles, by Creed himself. When it’s Creed, there’s a constant prickling on the back of his neck and up and down his spine. Creed hardly speaks; he just watches, smiling the whole time.

Kranz is in the small garden that Creed keeps, running his fingers over petals, stems and leaves. Having his sight back is still so alien to him and using his hands as a substitute is almost second nature. He can see it all: the colours of the petals, bright and vivid; the shapes of the leaves and the thorns on the stems. He’s wanted his sight back for a long time but, no matter what, he can’t bring himself to forsake his hands.

He hears the footsteps approaching long before he’s jabbed in the side, a gesture that’s almost playful. He reaches out and seizes hold of the wrist of the hand that poked him and turns to glare at Train Heartnet.

“What do you want?” he says, his voice cold, his grip on Train’s wrist tightening.

“Some company,” Train replies, prising Kranz’s hand from his wrist, “I’ll go _insane_ if I have to go to Creed just for some human contact; you’re my only hope, no matter how nuts you are.”

 Train follows him around the garden, passing the occasional comment. Kranz ignores him for the most part. He knows that Creed is watching from one of the windows, hiding himself from view. When Creed is in, he watches Train wherever he goes, like an animal stalking its prey.

When they reach the wall, a towering structure that casts them in shade, Kranz stops in his tracks. He can hear the sound of crashing waves on the other side of the wall and he frowns.

“Yeah, we’re by the sea,” Train says, looking up at the top of the wall, “To keep people in rather than to keep people out. Further from home than you thought, huh?”

Kranz runs a hand over the wall, feeling the rough stone. It’s made out of granite and it reminds Kranz of the pictures of fairytale castles from the books of his childhood. He smirks at the thought; this is nothing like a fairytale and it’s absurd that that’s what the wall reminds him of.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, turning his gaze on Train.

Train knocks on the wall, his mouth quirking up into a smile, “What would you do if this wasn’t here?”

“What do you think I would do?”

“I think you’d jump.”

Kranz raises an eyebrow, “You think my situation’s that hopeless?”

“Not like that,” Train rolls his eyes, as if he thought his statement was completely unambiguous, “You’d swim. The cliff’s not big and you’re crazy enough to do it.”

There’s a pause before Train carries on, “It’s got its weak spots, though. You just need to know where to look for them; they weren’t that hard for me to find, to be honest. Don’t tell anyone I said that, all right?”

Kranz doesn’t reply. He’s turned his attention back to the wall, sizing it up. It isn’t smooth but there’s nothing that can be used as a foothold for scaling it. The top is ridged with sharp lumps of granite that would be problematic if he could climb the wall but not impossible to get past.

Train glances back down along the garden and nudges Kranz in warning. Kranz turns to see Creed making his way down the garden, sword hanging at his side, and his mouth goes dry.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” Creed says when he reaches them, “And Train too, of course.”

“You want to see me?” Kranz can’t keep the disbelief out of his voice; in all the time he’s been there, Creed’s never approached him. Any contact consisted of comments in passing, usually coming from Creed himself.

Creed heaves a sigh, “I want a lot of things. Maybe talking to you will help me to get one of those things.”

 He smiles at Train, “Dear Train, do you mind leaving us for a little while? I’ll make it up to you later; I just need this conversation to be private.”

Train’s expression is a blend of confusion and a touch of disgust. He leaves, casting a glance back at Creed as he goes.

“What did you want me for?” Kranz says once Train is gone, his back pressed against the wall.

“Just a small favour,” Creed replies, “I want you to help us find the last of your…kind. My force can only do so much and those Numbers have hidden themselves surprisingly well.”

“And you think that _I_ know where they are?”

“I assumed you’d have some idea,” Creed says with a slight shrug, “Surely you know enough about them to have a clue about where they would feel safe.”

“And say I do know,” Kranz says, watching Creed for any sudden mood changes, “What makes you think I’ll cooperate with you?”

“I have my ways,” Creed says. He reaches into his coat and draws out a familiar knife. He smirks when he sees Kranz’s expression change from neutral to a scowl. “It’s a pretty little thing, isn’t it?”

“Is that one of your methods?” Kranz says, not taking his eyes off of Mars, “Because it’s not a good one.”

Creed’s smile grows and he turns the knife over in his hands, running one finger along the edge of it, “You could say it’s part of it; if you cooperate, you get it back. If you don’t…well, you and I both know that knives don’t just have one master.”

Kranz doesn’t acknowledge the comment and Creed takes it as a small victory. He traces the shape of the blade with one finger before trailing it down the handle as well. Kranz glares at him and had he been anyone else, Creed feels that he would have withered beneath that glare. But he’s not anyone else; he’s Creed Diskenth, leader of the Apostles of the Star and the conqueror of Chronos. He doesn’t wither in front of anyone, not any more.

“So what do you say?” he says, gently holding the knife by the blade, the handle pointing towards Kranz, “Will you help us have a Chronos Number reunion?”

Kranz glances at Mars and then to Creed’s face. While he aches to have Mars back and have his arm be complete again, the idea of cooperating with Creed and the Apostles to hunt down the remaining Numbers reeks of betrayal. He draws himself up to his full height, holding himself as proudly as possible, and keeps his face as neutral as possible.

“You can threaten me if you like,” he says, his voice unwavering, “But I won’t betray Chronos and the rules it held; I won’t go against my fellow Numbers and hunt them down for your amusement.”

Creed’s grin doesn’t fade; in fact, it grows and his eyes brighten. He slips Mars back into his inside pocket and leans in close to Kranz.

“Oh but you already have,” he purrs into Kranz’s ear, “Have you already forgotten _killing_ your closest comrade on the day Chronos fell?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never done a multichapter fic with a flowing storyline on AO3 before. Can you tell?


	4. The Men At Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we witness a daring escape.

_“My lady,” said the oldest of the men, “command your servants. We are used men, spent men—but if you would see miracles, you have only to request the impossible of us. We will become young again if you wish it so.” His three comrades muttered their agreement._

* * *

  

There are places in the city that even the Apostles don’t go, places that are safe from them. The lorry depot that Rinslet takes Baldor to is one of them.

It’s old and the bitumen needs replacing. The lorries themselves are faded and some of them have peeling paint. Rinslet steers Baldor around them and stops outside the door of the run-down building that serves as the office. She gives him a quick once-over and adjusts the too-long blue scarf that hides the numeral tattoo on the side of his neck.

“Well, you’re no Sven,” she says, “But you’re passable. And remember to let me do the talking.”

She opens the door and steps inside. Baldor glances over his shoulder to check that no one had followed them, a habit more than anything, before he follows her, tugging at the scarf around his neck.

The inside of the building is much less run-down than the outside. The floor is covered with an old worn out carpet and the vertical blinds are grimy but everything else is clean and neatly organised. There’s a woman sitting behind a desk, her feet up on the surface and reading a magazine.

“What do you want?” she asks, not even looking up from her magazine.

“To get something out of the city,” Rinslet says, giving Baldor a look warning him to keep quiet, “And I was told this was the place to go.”

“Mm?” the woman glances up at them, “And what do you need to move? There’s nothin’ too big or too small.”

Rinslet puts on her sweetest smile, “Mind if we talk about this somewhere more private?”

The woman sighs and puts down her magazine. She opens a drawer in the desk and draws out a ring of keys, standing up and unlocking the door to the back office. She beckons to them to follow her and Rinslet crosses her fingers behind her back before following the other woman.

“The only time people ever want to talk _privately_ ,” the woman says while Baldor closes the door behind him, “Is if they want to move something that they don’t want people to know about. We’ll move it for you but first we need to know what your dirty little secret is.”

Rinslet glances at Baldor but he doesn’t say anything. She hasn’t told him anything about these people; he hadn’t even known this place had existed before today. She’d organised the plan to get out of the city with Annette, using information she’d gotten from sweepers in the Hanging Tree and in Annette’s café. Baldor had stayed holed up in an apartment, bored and frustrated that Rinslet wasn’t telling him anything.

“I need to get him out,” Rinslet says, slipping an arm around Baldor’s waist and pushing him forwards, “As soon as possible. Today, if you can.”

The woman looks Baldor up and down before she looks at Rinslet, her expression doubtful, “What’s so special about him? Trying to outrun someone?”

“You could say that,” Baldor says stiffly. He hates that it can be called running from someone; running is the coward’s way out.

“Yeah?” the woman’s mouth turns up in a slight smile, “Who are you then?”

He pulls the scarf away from his neck and shows the woman the numeral tattoo. Her eyes widen and Rinslet’s expression looks oddly satisfied.

“Chronos?”  the woman says, looking from Baldor to Rinslet, “You brought a Chronos Number _here_?”

“I was told you’ve been helping people get out of the city,” Rinslet says, butting in before Baldor can say anything, “People who are in danger from the Apostles. Can you help us?”

She’s holding her handbag close and one of her hands hovers by her hip, ready to move to draw the pistol out from its hiding place in her bag if anything goes wrong. Baldor hasn’t seen her this tense, not even on his worst days when it looked like the money she’d spent on the doctor was going down the drain.

The woman heaves a shuddering sigh before looking Baldor straight in the eye, “I don’t agree with what Chronos did and I don’t think I ever will. But more than that, I despise what the Apostles are doing to this city, to everything they touch. So yes, I’ll help you, because what’s left of Chronos might be the only thing that can get people to stop the Apostles. And God knows that you need all the help you can get.”

Baldor feels the tension run out of him and he feels his shoulders slump. He wraps the scarf back around his neck, hiding his number away again. Rinslet claps him on the shoulder and grins at him; he shrugs her hand off and turns away, leaving her to talk to the woman about leaving the city.

He has no idea how they’re going to manage it. The city’s boundaries are crawling with Apostles and he’s heard on the news of random searches that cause hours of traffic jams.

“It’s going to be risky,” the woman says, “Since they use dogs now. But we’ve figured out a way around that. When we found out about the dogs, we were stumped for a bit but someone figured it out. The dogs haven’t caught anyone yet.”

The woman takes her keys off of a hook by the door and goes out into the parking area. She approaches a vehicle with faded blue paint and looks back at Rinslet, who’s hovering in the doorway to the office building.

“If there’s anything else you want to take,” she says, “You better let me know now. I charge for extra.”

“There’s nothing else,” Rinslet replies, wrapping her coat around herself and joining the woman alongside the lorry, “Is there a reason for something so…big?”

“It’s not usually used for moving people,” the woman says, “It’s for furniture.”

Rinslet blushes red from embarrassment but the other woman doesn’t notice. She’s watching Baldor, who’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and toying with the ends of the scarf. He looks bored.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Rinslet says eventually, “But you agreed to help without any questions. Why?”

“Because it’s saving someone’s life,” the woman says almost instantly, “Because it’s the right thing to do. You never know, it might make an impression on him.”

 Rinslet snorts, “If you can make any sort of impression on _him_ , I’ll personally nominate you for sainthood.”

 

* * *

 

 Rinslet’s been on a lot of dangerous jobs over her career; jobs that make her palms sweat and her heart race and she doesn’t feel at ease until after the goods are handed over and she’s at home with her hefty pay. She’s even been on a very dangerous job involving Chronos Numbers and Apostles, although it could be considered her least successful, considering the current situation.

However, she can’t remember ever feeling like this before.

They’re heading towards the city boundaries, with Baldor stashed in a hidden compartment in the back, and Rinslet’s heart is in her throat. She feels ill and that feeling only increases as they draw closer to the checkpoint, where the lorry will be searched. She toys with the ends of her wig, trying to distract herself. The woman beside her looks at ease, though, slowing the lorry down and shifting gear as they get closer.

“You sure we’ll be all right?” Rinslet asks as the lorry slows to a stop, “With him in the back, I mean.”

“We should be just fine,” the woman murmurs, “Those drugs should have knocked him out by now.”

Rinslet bites her lip, “I still don’t think you needed to drug him. He can be quiet when he needs to be.”

“People tend to be quieter when they’re unconscious. We can’t have something as simple as coughs or hiccups giving us away, can we?” the woman’s tone is dry and she narrows her eyes as she spots some of the Apostles’ foot soldiers coming towards them. “Now stay put and keep that wig on. I’ll see to this.”

She turns off the engine and gets out of the lorry, slamming the door behind her. She approaches the soldiers and Rinslet winds the window down so she can catch what they’re saying. One of the soldiers has a dog with him; the animal strains against its chain, trying to sniff at the woman’s pocket.

“We have to search your vehicle,” one of the soldiers says, his voice muffled, “In the interest of the city’s security.”

“Of course,” the woman says, nodding. She reaches into her pocket and draws out her wallet to show her ID. In doing so, she also draws out a plain white handkerchief, pressed up against the wallet. She passes the wallet over to the soldier so he can verify her and the handkerchief falls to the ground, slipping between her fingers.

The dog lunges forward, the soldier lurching forward as the animal moves, and presses its nose against the handkerchief. Rinslet watches, almost disbelieving, as the dog loses interest almost immediately, sitting back on its haunches and panting.

The woman apologises and picks the handkerchief back up, offering an explanation that Rinslet can’t hear as another lorry pulls up behind them. The soldier brushes it off and hands the woman back her wallet before going around the back of the lorry, opening it up and climbing inside.

Rinslet bows her head and waits for the inevitable discovery. She hears the soldiers boots and the movement of the dog and she waits for them to find him, for them to shout and have their guns pointed at her head.

But it never comes.

She hears the doors slam shut and the soldiers move on to the next vehicle. The woman clambers up next to her again, her expression smug and satisfied, slamming the door after her.

“What did you do to the dog?” Rinslet hisses as the engine starts up again, “What was in that handkerchief?”

“Just one of our little tricks,” the woman says, easing the lorry forwards and past the boundary set up by the Apostles, “And not the most legal one either. It’s covered in a mix of cocaine and dried chicken’s blood. Works like a charm.”

Rinslet stares at her, “Cocaine? Really?”

“I told you it wasn’t legal.”

Rinselt goes quiet for a moment, staring out the window and she almost can’t believe that they’re past the boundary. It was almost _too_ easy and a heavy feeling settles in her stomach. This isn’t the last time they’ll encounter the Apostles and their soldiers, she can feel it.

“Is he all right back there?” she asks eventually, her thoughts returning to Baldor, “Is he awake?”

The woman smiles and shakes her head, “No. That was some strong stuff I gave him back there.”

“Are you going to let him out any time soon?”

“Nah. He’s had worse.” There’s another pause and Rinslet finds herself plucking at a loose thread in the hem of her shirt before the woman continues, “Besides, I don’t want to have to deal with him when he wakes up.”

Rinslet raises an eyebrow, “Care to explain?”

“He is going to have one hell of a sore head when he wakes up.”

Rinslet grimaces and looks out of the window again. He was bad enough without what basically amounted to a hangover.

“So you’re leaving me to deal with him,” she mutters, her forehead pressed against the window, “That’s just _great.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact for you: I lifted the way of tricking the dog from a method that was apparently used by the Danish Resistance in World War Two. Isn't history interesting?


	5. Molly Grue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we witness a chance meeting between two old acquaintances.

_But Molly pushed him aside and went up to the unicorn, scolding her as though she were a strayed milk cow. “ **Where have you been?”** Before the whiteness and the shining horn, Molly shrank to a shrilling beetle but this time it was the unicorn’s old dark eyes that looked down._

_“I am here now,” she said at last._

_Molly laughed with her lips flat. “And what good is it to me that you’re here now? Where were you twenty years ago, ten years ago? How dare you, how dare you come to me now, when I am **this**?” With a flap of her hand she summed herself up: barren face, desert eyes and yellowing heart. “I wish you had never come, why do you come now?”_

* * *

“So how are you feeling?” Rinslet asks, her tone sweet and almost mocking.

Baldor sits across from her, his arms crossed on the tabletop in front of him and his forehead resting on his arms. Rinslet hears a muffled groan and she only smiles.

“Whatever she gave me was evil stuff,” he says, lifting his head. He looks pale, almost grey. “I feel like I’ve been fished out of a gutter.”

“That’s happened to you before?”

“A couple of times.”

She smothers a laugh at that and hides her smile behind her mug. The Chronos Numbers didn’t seem so intimidating after being presented with the idea of one of them being picked up out of the gutter. Baldor doesn’t notice; he looks as if his thoughts are a thousand miles away. She’s actually surprised at how mellow he seems. She guesses it’s because of the knock out drugs he was given.

 The pair of them fall into silence, Rinslet scrolling on her laptop and Baldor just watching the crowds move by. It’s the first time he’s been outside, properly outside, in months. His hand’s wandered to rest over his scar in a movement that’s probably unconscious.

“So, anything you’re going to look for when we part ways?” Rinslet asks, “Or are you just planning on lying low and building yourself back up again?”

“I want to find the others,” he says, “If I can.”

“If they’re alive.”

His expression hardens and his voice turns empty, “Some of them will be.”

They’ve talked about this before, when he was still bedridden with a hole in his gut. Well, she’d tried to talk to him about; when he wasn’t frustrated and angry with his situation, he’d tended to sit and look out of the window for hours, down at the city below. Whatever it was Chronos had taught him while he was growing up, healthy coping mechanisms hadn’t been included.

“I’ll believe you,” she says, “You knew them all better than I ever will.”

She shuts her laptop down and closes it, slipping it into the laptop bag she has down by her feet. She’s not even sure of her own plans; she’ll possibly try to go back to her usual work, rather than just providing information to sweepers.

It will be nice to get back to normal. It might even provide her with chances, even minuscule ones, to spite Creed and his Apostles. Now that would be satisfying, especially since they’d taken away everyone she held dear: Train, Sven, Eve, _Jenos._

“Do you want to come with me for a bit?” she asks, lifting the strap of the bag over her shoulder, “At least until your head gets back to normal.”

When he doesn’t reply, she wonders if he even heard her. A bus roars past and he looks back at her, his expression almost amused.

“Depends on where you’re going,” he says.

“I was thinking of finding a sweeper’s bar or something,” Rinslet replies, “Get some ideas for work. You might be able to find something useful there.”

He stands up, kicking the chair back as he does. Rinslet huffs and folds her arms.

“Are you coming with me or not?”

“I have nothing better to do,” he says, “May as well go with you for now. Besides, your little investigations might turn up something actually useful.”

 Rinslet’s sure that that was a jab at how long it took to find a safe and fast way to Cashmere. She chooses to ignore it and leaves some change on the table as a tip to the waiter before turning on her heel and leaving. Baldor doesn’t need her to wait for him.

According to the description she’d been given at the café, the closest sweeper’s bar was a low building built out of grey concrete with large tinted windows; it had been called the “ugliest building in Cashmere” by the man who’d told her and she’d heard his companion call it “The Cinderblock.”

It should be the easiest place in the city to find.

She wanders the streets for a while, trailed by Baldor, as she tries to get her bearing in the city. Baldor’s at ease and it’s obvious that he knows the city better than she ever will.

“Keep an eye out for a building that looks like an ugly concrete brick,” she says, “I’d say it shouldn’t be too hard to spot but I’ve had some bad luck with famous last words lately.”

Baldor doesn’t say anything in reply and Rinslet checks behind her to see if he’s still following her. He’s stopped a few metres back and is watching down an alley way, looking as if he’d seen a unicorn or something equally impossible. Rinslet backtracks until she’s standing alongside him and peers down the alleyway as well.

“Good eye,” she says, “…What’s the matter?”

“I thought I just…” he pauses, the first hesitation she’s seen from him, “Nothing. Is that the place?”

“Looks like,” she says, “Coming?”

He nods and sets off down the alleyway. At the end, he stops, his expression baffled. Rinslet taps him on the shoulder as she passes him.

“Act like a normal human being,” she says.

He catches hold of her wrist as she goes past and she turns to glare at him. She yanks her wrist away from him and folds her arms over her chest.

“What is your problem?” she asks, “You know I don’t like that.”

“Who have you been talking to?” he says, his tone demanding, “And what have you been saying?”

“I only mentioned you in public since we’ve been here,” Rinslet replies. His expression is suspicious and the tone of voice he’d used had unnerved her; it served as a reminder who he is, what he’s capable of. “And even then it was only to sweepers and none of them know what you look like; they only know your name and your Number.”

“Was there a reason you wanted to come to this particular place?” Baldor asks, “This can’t be the only one in this city; why this one?”

“There is no reason,” Rinslet says, “What’s gotten into you?”

He rests his forehead against the dirty alley wall and sighs in frustration, “I’m going mad.”

“You’re already there,” Rinslet says crisply, “Are you done now?”

“I’m fine,” he says, turning to face her again, “Lead on.”

Rinslet regards him warily before she makes her way towards the door. She wants to know what brought that on but it can wait; if he sticks around after this, she’ll quiz him then. For now, finding information is more important. She pushes the door open and steps into the gloomy bar.

The building is devoid of people, apart from the noise of the bartender who’s out of sight behind the bar, stacking bottles in the small fridge. The room smells of cigarette smoke and Rinslet wrinkles her nose; she can handle the smell from one cigarette but when it lingers in a room, she can’t stand it.

“We’re just closing up,” the bartender says. He sounds strangely familiar but Rinslet can’t place his voice. Behind her, she hears Baldor swear under his breath, “We close early on Mondays.”

The fridge door closes and the bartender stands up, turning to face them. It’s then that Rinslet recognises him. Everything that’s happened over the past few months has completely eclipsed that day in Creed’s castle.

She hadn’t expected to meet **Nizer Bruckheimer again, especially not in a dingy sweeper’s bar in a strange city.**

The two Numbers stare at each other for a moment and Rinslet can feel the tension building up in the room.

“Where have you been?” Nizer’s voice is hollow sounding. He turns to look at Baldor again, fixing him with a hard stare.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Baldor says, anger simmering in his voice. It’s a low sort of anger, as if it’s just barely restrained, and it’s not something Rinslet associates with him. It reminds her more of Train.

“Surviving, trying to work out the best way to make it through this mess.”

Baldor sneers at that, “Acting the coward then.”

 “And what’s your excuse then?” Nizer says, his expression turning into a glare and his tone turning poisonous, “Where have you been? What rock have you been hiding under while the world falls apart? We expected to hear of you going down in a blaze of glory but instead you slink in here and have the gall to call me a coward. _Where have you been?”_

Rinslet rubs at her temples, almost regretting looking for this place. While she was glad and, oddly enough, relieved to have found another Chronos Number alive in all this mess, she’d also been hoping that Baldor’s mellow mood would last until they parted.

“It’s hard to accomplish anything when you have a hole in your gut,” Baldor snaps, his temper rising. He gestures towards Rinslet, “Just ask her; she’s the one who kept me cooped up for months!”

Rinslet feels a sharp twinge of annoyance, “Don’t blame me because you nearly went and got yourself killed. I saved your life, remember? Out of the goodness of my heart and out of my own pocket too so I suggest you shut up before I start charging you.”

She holds up a hand to show that she wasn’t finished before she continues, “And I’ll remind you that if you so much as go _near_ a bank, Creed will be on top of you before you can blink so if I charge you, you’ll be in debt for a _long_ time. Considering that the only reason you and I are here together at all is because you feel like you owe me something, I can guess that you don’t particularly like the idea of being indebted to someone, right?”

Satisfied that she’s managed to shut Baldor up for a moment, she turns her attention to Nizer instead. He looks as if he’s impressed.

“Maybe I should have tried that,” he says, sounding amused.

Admittedly, Rinslet hadn’t even known if it would actually shut him up or just get him more worked up. It certainly hadn’t made her feel any better.

“Is there anywhere else we can talk?” Rinslet asks, “I’m telling you now, I’m pretty sick of sweeper’s bars; I’ll be happy to never set foot in one again.”

Nizer shrugs, “If you don’t mind small apartments with shabby wallpaper. That’s the only place where we wouldn’t be interrupted.”

“Good,” Rinslet says, “Because we’re going to have a lot to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the hardest to write, weirdly enough. I'm not too great with writing...stuff like this, I s'pose.


	6. The Unicorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a reunion and an unusual request.

_The unicorn stood still at the edge of the forest and said aloud, “I am the only unicorn there is.” They were the first words she had spoken, even to herself in more than a hundred years.  That can’t be, she thought. She had never minded being alone, never seeing another unicorn, because she had always known that there were others like her in the world, and a unicorn needs no more than that for company. “But I would know if all the others were gone. I’d be gone too. Nothing can happen to them that does not happen to me.”_

****

* * *

 

 

Hershell Buildings is an area that consists of three blocks of flat, arranged in a triangle around a small courtyard. The inside is tired-looking, with worn red carpets and walls that might have been white once but are now grey. One of the lifts is taped off with black and yellow warning tape.

Nizer’s flat is on the fifth floor and the door is scratched, the brass _504_ dull under the flickering light. The hallway is completely silent. It’s unnerving; Baldor’s never liked the quiet.

The flat itself is small and sparse. Oddly enough, there’s a cane leaning against the wall by the door. Rinslet glances at it as she shuts the door but she just shrugs.

A cane isn’t a strange thing to see in a rented apartment; it was probably left there by the last tenant.

Nizer throws his coat over the back of the worn settee before peering into the kitchen. He shrugs before turning back to Rinslet and Baldor. Baldor’s thumbing some flaking paint off of the doorframe, pushing it off, watching it fall down on to the threadbare carpet.

“Wait here for a moment,” Nizer says, frowning slightly at what Baldor was doing, “And stop doing that.”

Baldor shrugs and tucks his hands into his pockets. He wanders over to the window while Nizer goes through the small hallway on the other side of the room. The courtyard that the window looks down on is slightly drab; a circle of grass surrounding a towering oak tree with a strip of bitumen forming a grey ring around it. There’s no one to be seen outside.

If someone wanted to disappear, Hershell Buildings definitely seems like the perfect place to do it.

“This is a place of nobodies,” Rinslet says from behind him, “It’s like the city forgot it or something.”

“I think it has,” Baldor says quietly. He hears the murmur of voices behind him but his attention’s been caught by the old grey van that’s started circling the courtyard. It’s nothing too abnormal or suspicious but nothing is sitting quite right with him; he’s felt it since they left that sweeper bar.

There’s something about this city, especially this part of the city, which just doesn’t feel _right._

He hears Nizer coming back into the room, accompanied by a second pair of footsteps, and he glances away from the window. Almost immediately, he double takes.

The last person he’d ever expected to see needing a cane to walk is Jenos Hazard.

Rinslet’s mouth presses into a thin line when she sees him. Jenos shrinks back a little and looks back at Nizer, even while Rinslet glares daggers at him.

“You could have warned me,” he says, tightening his hold on the cane.

“I said we had guests,” Nizer says with a shrug, “It’s not my fault you didn’t ask who it was.”

“You mentioned Baldor,” Jenos says, gesturing to where Baldor was leaning against the window frame, “I was prepared for _his_ wrath.”

Baldor looked over at Rinslet to see that, while her eyes have welled up with tears, her expression is almost murderous. She shoves Jenos’s shoulder, knocking him back a couple of steps. He winces in pain and offers her an apologetic look.

“I really was going to call you again,” he says. He leans heavily on the cane and his face is ashen.

“Though it was hardly safe,” Nizer butts in, “That and the phones keep getting cut; all our assets are frozen and my wages don’t cover both the rent and phone bills.”

Rinslet glanced towards Baldor before she folds her arms over her chest, her annoyance clearly dissipating. She sighs before taking a seat on the settee and turning to look back at Jenos.

“I can’t stay annoyed at a guy who can’t even walk properly,” she says, “So you’re forgiven. What happened?”

“Some of Creed’s goons carry clubs,” Jenos says with a shrug, “And I got careless.”

Baldor glances at Jenos’s injured leg, noting how little weight he puts on it even months after he’d been injured. Jenos hadn’t just been careless; there was clearly more to it than just being clubbed in the knee. Rinslet only raises an eyebrow but doesn’t pursue the matter.

“And then you two took a road trip around the country?” says Baldor, “Guess you never stopped running from them.”

“Seems like you’ve mellowed out,” Jenos says, sitting down and stretching his injured leg in front of him, rubbing his knee, “See Nizer, miracles can happen.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Nizer says. Jenos grins before turning his attention back to Rinslet since it’s obvious that still wants a word with him. Nizer looks Baldor in the eye and nods towards the kitchen. Baldor moves away from the window and follows him into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him.

The light in the kitchen hums and flickers slightly as it comes on. With the dim light, Baldor can see that the kitchen is a little shabby, with discoloured cabinets and black dust gathered in the corners of the LED light.

“You noticed then?” Nizer says. He’s taken a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and stands by the open kitchen window, slipping a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it up.

“That you’re being watched? I’d be an idiot not to.”

The tip of the cigarette glows a dull red. Nizer glances out of the window and frowns; the same grey van is making its rounds around the oak tree again. He exhales the smoke out through the window and doesn’t take his eyes off of the van.

“Jenos noticed them first,” he says quietly, “He was here, still trying to recover; he’d been ill for a while and moving really didn’t help matters. They’ve been around for about a month now.”

“And what are you planning to do about it?”

“At the moment, nothing,” Nizer says, “It doesn’t seem like the smartest thing to do, having a go at people who vastly outnumber us.”

He goes silent then. Behind the door, Baldor can hear Rinslet and Jenos talking in the next room, their voices low and muffled. The sound of birds and distant traffic drifts through the open window and the thin curtain blows forward in a soft breeze.

“I need to ask you a favour,” Nizer says eventually. He stubs the cigarette out on the window sill before he turns away from the window to face Baldor again.

Baldor raises an eyebrow. Nizer doesn’t ask for favours, at least not from him. The pair of them had never gotten along well; the only Number Baldor had a decent relationship with was Kranz. The relationship between Nizer and Baldor had been one of ambivalence when apart and an uneasy, wary trust when having to work together.

“What kind of favour?”

“If and when they make their move, can you make sure that Jenos gets out of it safely?”

Baldor’s a little taken aback at the request and just a touch suspicious. It sounds almost like a resignation of defeat, like Nizer’s already given up on any potential fight. It’s not an attitude that Baldor likes coming from anyone.

“Why?” he asks. His tone is heavy under the weight of suspicion, as well as a little genuine curiosity. If Nizer’s managed so far in keeping Jenos and himself safe enough, why is he asking Baldor? “Surely Jenos can take care of himself.”

Nizer shakes his head, “Not with that leg. It’s not getting any better and he knows it. I’ve managed to keep hold of Dioskouroi but I’m guessing you haven’t got Heimdall anymore.”

Baldor hesitates before he shakes his head. He doesn’t actually have any weapons; Rinslet refuses to surrender neither her pistol nor her whip and he refuses to even touch knives. The idea of using a knife just reminds him of that fateful day and Mars’s blade buried in his abdomen—

“I thought as much,” Nizer says, “And that’s why I’d need you to get him out; I’d provide enough of a distraction on my own for you lot to get to safety.”

Baldor falls silent while he mulls over the idea. He and Jenos don’t like each other; that’s a known fact. And if he knows Jenos, then he knows that the other man would prefer to stay and help his last living friend rather than leaving him to the wolves.

Then again, there’s also Rinslet. Jenos’s soft spot for her would more than likely be a large influence on any fight or flight decisions. If the situation arose, Baldor could only depend on Jenos’s ‘always save the girl’ attitude to help get him out of danger.

 He sighs, “I’m not making any promises but I’ll do my best. Just don’t hold me to anything, all right?”

Nizer visibly relaxes when he says that and he smiles wryly.

“I think you and I both know that if you needed to get him out, I won’t be in any position to hold you to anything.”


	7. The Red Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes are attacked and the world starts crumbling down again.

_He was the colour of blood, not the springing blood of the heart but the blood that stirs under an old wound that never really healed. A terrible light poured from him like sweat, and his roar started landslides flowing into one another. His horns were as pale as scars. For one moment the unicorn faced him, frozen as a wave about to break. Then the light of her horn went out and she turned and fled. The Red Bull bellowed again and leaped down after her._

* * *

 

 

The next morning dawns cold and grey. Rinslet lies on her side on the air mattress on the living room floor, listening to the low murmur of voices in the kitchen. Baldor’s awake already, sitting on the wide windowsill, a cup of steaming coffee in his hands. He’s dressed in clothes borrowed from Jenos, the shirt slightly worn at the elbows and cuffs. He looks almost casual, almost relaxed; there’s an air of tension around him, something that’s always present but is worse this morning.

Rinslet sat up, the blanket slipping down around her waist, rubbing her eyes. She’s wearing one of Jenos’s shirts, far too big but oddly comforting at the same time. She grabs her jeans and pulls them on before she gets up to make her way to the kitchen. Baldor glances at her but quickly goes back to watching out of the window. Something’s obviously bothering him but she’s too distracted by the promise of coffee to bother asking.

“What’s up with the watcher at the window?” she asks, nudging Jenos in the ribs. She spots the ever-present cane and quickly averts her eyes; it’s almost surreal to see him needing a cane.

“Baldor?” Jenos’s expression turns thoughtful, “Who knows?”

Rinslet has a feeling that he’s not telling her something. She doesn’t press him, though, and accepts the mug of coffee that he offers her. Nizer hums at the back of his throat and leaves the kitchen, only closing the door halfway.

“So what are your plans?”

Jenos hesitates before he replies. Rinslet guesses that he doesn’t actually have any concrete plans; if he had any, her arrival with Baldor had probably thrown them all out of the figurative window, disrupting the reality that he’d established here. While it couldn’t be called a normal reality, at least not for him, it was more stable than what she had with Baldor.

“I have to refill the fridge,” he says, “So that means a trip to the supermarket. Fancy coming along?”

His expression is oddly hopeful.  She imagines that the only friendly company he’s had in months has been Nizer. No matter how good a friend he might be, Rinslet feels that Jenos would be happy to talk to a radioactive snail if it meant having someone else to talk to.

“Why not? We can have a big supermarket adventure.”

“Bring Baldor too,” Jenos smirks, “Just have to remember the muzzle.”

“He hasn’t been that bad,” Rinslet says, leaning on the counter, “When I brought him in though? I’ve met wasps with a better temper.”

“We can forgive him for that. He was nearly gutted, after all.”

Rinslet sips from the mug that’s warming her hands. It, admittedly, tastes better than any coffee Sven had given her, although that might just be down to the fact that he let it get cold before actually pouring it.

The sun was up now, casting the world in a soft golden glow, the sky streaked with pink and purple. The moon is a snowy crescent hanging against the morning sky. Rinslet stands at the window and watches as the last pinpoint stars wink out of existence. Standing there, she realises that she has no idea what to do next. It’s unusual for her; she always likes to have plans, to know where to go.

She’s lost and she was probably lost long before coming to this city.

The coffee suddenly tastes too bitter and it burns when she swallows.

 

* * *

 

 Baldor, it turns out, makes an effective pack mule; at least, he has no problem with carrying groceries up the stairs. He makes faster work of it than Jenos would, with an injured leg and both lifts out of order.

“We have the bad luck,” Jenos says, leaning heavily on his cane to take the weight off of his bad leg, “To always end up in the places with either no lift or in ones where the lifts breakdown a lot. But that’s the price we pay for lying low.”

Rinslet waits for him a few steps up. The reason she’s given for not carrying on ahead is that she probably would be able to find his flat again. They both know that’s a lie; she’s memorised buildings more complex than a simple block of flats.

“That might be way your leg’s all fucked up,” she says, her voice echoing in the stairwell, “Having to keep going up and down like this.”

Jenos shrugs and sets his foot back on the ground, his face creasing in pain as he does. Before all this happened, Rinslet would have been a little surprised to see one of the legendary Chronos Numbers show a moment of weakness like that. Now, after what she’d seen happen, she’s not sure if anything could surprise her anymore.

There are raised voices coming from upstairs, slightly muffled. Jenos glanced up and shrugs apologetically.

“You haven’t met the neighbours,” he says, as if that explains everything.

The door at the top of the stairwell is heavy and scrawled with graffiti. Rinslet picks out profanity and political messages before Jenos opens the door. As the door swings open, a truncheon rapidly follows. It takes Jenos by surprise, clocking him in the forehead above his left eye. He jerks back away from the door, stumbling on the stairs slightly. His left eye has closed against the blood that’s dripping from the fresh wound.

A man in grey armour stands in the doorway, a black hood covering his head and a white mask over his face; the mask is mostly featureless, apart from the completely round eyes and the star on its forehead. A member of the Shooting Star unit, no doubt.

“Located the third Number,” he says, putting the truncheon back onto his belt and reaching for the gun strapped to his back, “Commencing capture and elimination of the accompanying civilian.”

 Before he can withdraw the gun, Rinslet’s whip is in her hand. She flicks her wrist and sends the end of the whip towards him. It wrapped around his arm and she jerked as hard as she could, throwing herself slightly off balance. The gun clatters to the floor as he loses his grip and it ends up tumbling down the stairs. Rinslet tenses, just waiting for it to go off.

“Bitch!” the soldier curses, pulling a knife from his belt with his free hand. He shakes off the whip and takes a step towards her on the stairs.

Oddly enough, he seems to have forgotten about Jenos who’s pressed up against the wall behind the open door. The Number moves quickly, despite his bad leg and the head injury, pushing the blade of a knife into the back of the man’s neck. The man lets out a surprised gurgle and collapses forward, following his gun down the stairs. Jenos stares in disbelief.

“How did they defeat us?”

Rinslet shrugs, “Maybe he was just a shitty soldier.”

Jenos rubs his hand over his face, wiping the blood away from his eye. He keeps hold of the knife as he goes through the door, every movement cautious. Rinslet follows, twisting her whip into a loop.

 Baldor’s in the hallway, his knuckles bruised and bloodstained. The doors on either side are splintered and there’s a broken chair leaning against the wall; one of its legs was at Baldor’s feet, the splintered end soaked red. Rinslet could see the prone figure of another soldier in the doorway to Nizer and Jenos’s apartment, his mask shattered and his face a bloodied and bruised mess.

“They were waiting here!” Baldor snarls, “All around here. The hall was all torn up when I got here; looks like Nizer put up one hell of a fight.”

“Explains why they were so e—” Jenos stops midsentence and narrows his eyes, “Where is Nizer?”

Baldor shrugs, “They probably got him. Like I said, the place is a mess.”

Jenos went past him and into his flat. Rinslet follows and peers in. It’s been turned upside down. The kitchen door was in half, the splinters in the remaining half standing like thorns and the other half in pieces on the floor. Most of the furniture is utterly destroyed, either riddled with bullet holes or smashed to pieces. Dark drops of blood are scattered on the carpet.

Jenos stands in the middle of the destroyed living room, one hand against the injury on his head, his head bowed. Rinslet knows how it feels to have your whole world collapse around you once. Poor Jenos had gone through it twice by now.

“We have to go,” Baldor says from the hallway, rubbing his bruised knuckles, “It’s not safe here. There’s probably more of them.”

Rinslet turns to look at him, “Give him a minute.”

Baldor glares at her, “We don’t have minute.”

She glances at his knuckles and then down at the splintered chair leg on the floor. The soldier on the floor made no sign of waking.

“I think we can handle a minute.”  

Baldor sighs but leans against the wall to wait anyway. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the unconscious man on the floor. Rinslet nudges the soldier with her foot but he still doesn’t stir. She’s slightly impressed; from the looks of things, Baldor had knocked him out completely cold, or even _killed_ him, with just a chair leg and his bare fists. She can hear Jenos limping in the flat and she wonders what he’s looking for.  When he rejoins them, he’s cleaned the gore off of his face, although the wound above his eye is still bleeding. He looks absent, unfocussed.

“We’ll get out of here,” Rinslet says, “And get you to a doctor.”

Baldor waits by the entrance to the stairwell, holding the door open with one foot. He heads down first, sidestepping the corpse and the rifle with not even a side glance. Rinslet grimaces when she sees it again; blood has welled up around the knife, crusting it with gore. Like Baldor, Jenos doesn’t even acknowledge it. Rinslet picks up her pace, eager to put as much distance between herself and the two soldiers as possible.

 

* * *

 

Once outside of the flats and away from the complex, Rinslet realises she’s lost. Baldor’s been trailing her, half carrying Jenos. Jenos had lost his cane somewhere along the way and the combination of his bad leg and the head injury meant that he hadn’t been making quick enough progress.

Rinslet stops dead when she sees that she’s led them towards some unfamiliar buildings. They look like shabby office blocks with a small square of empty concrete between them, ringed by chainlink fence.

“Baldor,” she says, turning to face him. She fishes around in the bag that she’s somehow managed to keep a hold of and draws out her pistol, “You’re going to have to change your strategy; you can’t hit things when you’ve got Jenos hanging off your shoulder like that.”

Baldor glances at the pistol and then at Jenos, “I can’t shoot. Kranz could shoot better than me.”

“You don’t need to be able to shoot in a straight line,” Rinslet says, “You just have to be able to hit something. Besides, nobody will know that a blind guy could shoot better than you.”

His expression darkens at that but he takes the pistol anyway. The way he handles it is cautious, as if it’s the most dangerous and volatile thing in existence.

“The safety’s on,” she says, slightly amused, “You’re fine.”

Despite giving Baldor the pistol, the feeling of worry that’s brewing in her chest isn’t going away. They won’t be safe until they leave this city far behind them. Behind her, Jenos has turned an almost grey shade of pale, the blood that still trickles down his face a bright, shocking scarlet.

Baldor’s stopped behind her and is trying to examine Jenos’ injury. There’s already blotchy purple bruising beginning to form and much of the blood has started to turn sticky and dry. Looking at him, Rinslet guesses he won’t last much longer; if he’s concussed, there’s only so far he can go.

“How’s he holding up?” she asks.

Baldor shrugs, “I’m not a doctor. All I wanted to know was if his head had stopped bleeding.”

Rinslet nudges Jenos’s arm, “How’s the head?”

Jenos shook his head slightly, grimacing and pressing his hand against his forehead. That strange glassy look doesn’t leave his eyes, “Been better. No concussion; doesn’t feel right.”

Rinslet nods; just out of it then. She hopes that giving him some painkillers and patching him up would put him back to normal. He’s still leaning on Baldor a little; Rinslet wants to ask exactly how he let his leg get so bad that he can put barely any weight on it.

The alleyways all branch off in different directions, all leading to different streets and, hopefully, different routes out of the city. Different routes is good; if there are only a few Stars in the city, it could muddy the trail a little, give Rinslet time to slip them underground again.

“Stay here for a minute,” she says to Baldor, “Keep an eye out for me.”

Before she can even take a step away from the two Numbers, an explosive shot erupts from behind her. Her ears start ringing and she feels the bullet whizz past her face. She squeezes her eyes shut and ducks her head, waiting for the ringing to stop.

A pair of arms wrap around her, thick and heavy set. One is around her throat, the other around her waist, and she’s hoisted off the ground. She reaches up to claw at the arm around her throat, her nails digging into skin but all she gets in response is a low chuckle.

Of course they’d been followed. She should have known; there wouldn’t have been just Creed’s foot soldiers, he had sympathisers and they should have known better.

She opens her eyes to see three other men have ringed Jenos and Baldor in. There’s a splash of blood on the ground and Jenos’s hands are smeared in it again, fresh and covering the dried dark stuff from earlier. He and Baldor stood close together, practically back to back, shoulder to shoulder. Her own gun is pointed in her direction, at the man holding onto her.

“All right then, boys,” the man says, “I’ll let her go on her way if you two turn yourselves in nice and quiet. There’s a nice pay cheque waiting for us if we get you two without a fuss.”

Rinslet sees Baldor scowl before she squeezes her eyes shut and hears the safety being clicked off. She swallows down the lump of fear that’s grown up in her throat; guns are threats enough on their own but in the hands of a man who’s worse at shooting than a blind man? It’s terrifying.

“You wouldn’t do it,” the man taunts, applying more pressure to Rinslet’s throat, “Risk shooting her? You’re not that stupid.”

“Jenos might not be,” Baldor says, his voice colder than Rinslet’s ever heard it. The tone is deadly, calculated. “But do I look like I’m like him?”

Rinslet opens her eyes fully and sees that Baldor’s expression is cold and steely; he suddenly look every bit the part of a man raised to be a killer. She knows Baldor has only a few options open to him: give in, which she _knows_ he’d never do; risk death or capture if he refuses; or shoot, to get rid of the man holding Rinslet and make an escape. And she’s almost certain she knows which option he’s going to take.

One of the other men makes a lunge for Jenos, managing to grab hold of him. Despite the leg injury, Jenos manages to twist out of the man’s grip, throwing him off balance slightly. Using this brief opening of surprise to his advantage, Jenos manages to wrestle the man to the ground, pushing him onto his front and twisting his arms behind his back. Rinslet watches as he pulls the man’s own pistol from his belt and presses the muzzle of the gun against the back of the man’s threat. Instinctively, she flinches when the gun goes off and the man’s head bursts in a spray of blood and bone.

Baldor’s expression doesn’t change.

For a moment, Jenos stays where he but then he drops to the ground, leaning heavily against Baldor’s legs, shaking from the pain in his knee. Baldor glances at him briefly before fixing the man holding Rinslet with a wolfish grin.

“Let her go,” he demands, “Let her go and go slinking back to Creed. Tell him we won’t go as quietly as he wants.”

Rinslet digs her nails into the man’s arm even as his chest rumbles with laughter.

“Your friend’s impressive,” he says, “But you can’t threaten me with that. Not only do we outnumber you, I know you’re not close enough to be successful with that; your good old friend spilled the beans about your little shooting problem to Creed’s favourite. You’re more likely to hit her than me.”

The two other remaining men chuckle at that. It seems to Rinslet that they’re for intimidation value more than anything, something to use against two Chronos Numbers who might prove to be more trouble than they first thought.

Rinslet hears Baldor suck in a breath and see his expression change from that icy distance to a flash of fury. He steadies the gun with his free hand and Rinslet sees what’s coming. The fear in her throat wells up again and she opens her mouth to scream, to protest, right at the moment that the gun went off again. She shrieks as she’s dropped suddenly, the bullet striking with a spray of red mist and leaving a hot, wet feeling covering her head and the back of her neck. The man behind her crumples, keeling over, the crater of his face leaking blood that onto the ground, creating a deep red stain. Rinslet stays on the ground, shaking, the blood and brains of a stranger sliding down her neck.

One of the other men roars in anger and charges at Baldor, while the other heads towards Rinslet. Baldor pivots on his heel and brings his hand up to crack the butt of the gun against the back of the man’s head. Every movement he makes keeps himself between Jenos and the threat. The third man makes a grab for Rinslet but she scrambles out of the way and grabs her dropped whip, slashing out with it and striking him across the eyes. He staggers backwards, hands pressed against his eyes. Rinslet’s satisfied; if he’s blinded, it’s too kind for him.

Baldor’s managed to beat the second man down to the ground using nothing but his fists and the butt of the gun. The man seems to be unconscious and his face is purple, bruised mess. Baldor’s merciless, brutal, and only stops when the man has stopped moving completely. Rinslet joins him and Jenos, keeping an eye on the third man the whole time.

Baldor hands her the gun back and she gingerly takes it, grimacing a little in disgust at the blood that makes the pistol slippery. He gestures towards the third man, who’s now glaring at the furious, his eyes bloodshot and an angry red welt appearing across his face.

“You do the honours,” Baldor says, crouching down to hoist Jenos up off the ground.

Rinslet wipes the gun on her jeans before she checks how much ammo is left in the chamber; two bullets left. Two is enough. She closes the chamber again and lifts the pistol, holding it with both hands. She fires with two short bursts and one bullet hits right on target, striking the man just above the knee. He howls in agony and Rinslet finds she feels a sort of sick satisfaction at the sound.

“You can crawl back to Creed if you want,” she says, “But if I were you, I’d hide out and lick my wounds. Something tells me that Creed doesn’t respond well to catastrophic failures.”

She turns her back on him and walks away, followed by Baldor who’s now carrying Jenos rather than simply supporting him. Underneath the dried, sticky blood,  Jenos’s expression is a mix of pain and embarrassment, probably ashamed of being so dependent on Baldor.

Once the sound of the man’s moans are well behind them, Rinslet leans against a wall, sliding down it until she’s crumpled on the floor. All she can feel is the blood all over her head and neck, the bruising forming around her throat and the shaking in her limbs. As if through a thick fog, she hears Jenos tell Baldor that he and Nizer kept a car around here. Oddly enough, she doesn’t care. She hugs her knees close to her, burying her face in her knees, and finally allows herself to cry.


	8. The Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we reunite with some new, familiar faces.

_“I told you that I was older than I look,” he said. “I was born mortal and I have been immortal for a long, foolish time, and one day I will be mortal again; so I know something a unicorn cannot know. Whatever can die is beautiful—more beautiful than a unicorn, who lives forever, and who is the most beautiful creature in the world. Do you understand me?”_

_“No,” she said._

_The magician smiled wearily, “You will. You’re in the story with the rest of us now, and you must go with it, whether you will or no. If you want to find your people, if you want to become a unicorn again, then you must follow the fairytale to King Haggard’s castle, and wherever it chooses to take you. The story cannot end without the princess.”_

* * *

 

 

To go into the hospital, she needs to twist her hair into heavy braids and then bundle them up in a bun. The hospital, much like everything else, is underground and is lit by dull fluorescent lights. It smells of bleach and pine disinfectant. She’s only been in something like a hospital once, when she’d been shot by the gun-toting Apostle.

But Eve’s not here for treatment; she’s here for a visit.

Chronos Number X, Lin Shao Lee, occupies the bed at the far end of the hospital. He’s the only patient here, now that Silphy’s been discharged. He keeps himself busy by practicing his writing and it’s slowly gone from wobbly and childish to much more legible.

Today, however, he doesn’t seem to be in the mood. Most of the time, he’s quite chipper, despite the situation, but today he’s melancholy. All of his bandages have gone now and Eve has to force her gaze away from the stump of his right arm.

“Are you OK?” she asks, drawing a chair up alongside his bed.

“Hm? I’m fine,” he replies. There’s a book on the sheets next to him, bookmarked near the end. “Just thinking.”

Eve narrows her eyes. He’s not being honest and she knows it. She reaches out and picks up the book off the sheets, flipping it over and reading the blurb.

“You can take it if you like,” he says, plucking at a loose thread in the sheets, “I know how hard it is for you to find books down here.”

The blurb says it’s a book about fallout and a quest to bring clean water to a poisoned wasteland. It’s not one that she’s read before and it looks promising; a story of hope and the kindness of humanity is definitely something she needs right now. She flicked the bookmark.

“You haven’t finished it yet.”

“I skipped ahead and read the last chapter,” he says with a small smile, “Terrible, I know. I couldn’t resist.”

Eve looks up from the book and studies him, really studies him. She wonders if this is the closest she’s come to seeing the real Shao Lee, the man behind the Magician. There’s no grin today, no brightness in his voice; he looks and sounds like he’s tired. His black hair had been chopped short not long after their arrival and, somehow, short hair just makes him look sadder.

“You know the radio they gave me?” she says quickly, suddenly desperate to try and pluck him out of that melancholy, “The wireless? I managed to fix it. It gets the news now and not just from that vintage station.”

“And what’s the news saying? They don’t tell me anything here.”

Her mouth pulls into a tiny smile, “Guess.”

It’s an echo of all the conversations they’d had trying to find this bunker, this underground resistance, conversations they’d had in cold and dark places. “ _What does it look like out there?”_ A bright smile, the dull sparkle of bright blue eyes. “ _Guess.”_

He leans back against the metal framework and his expression turns thoughtful.

“It’s about the war,” he says eventually, “Am I right?”

She’s surprised, “You think it’s a war?”

“Of course it is. Not all wars last for years. Creed hasn’t won yet; this place is proof enough that we’re still fighting.

“So what…what do you think about wars?” she’s curious, although she knows the question is odd. He doesn’t say anything though; he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and looks like he’s seriously considering the answer.

“War never changes,” he says, “And it probably never will. All through history, we’ve seen the same reasons for it: God, justice, power. Only weapons change.”

She nods. The pair of them lapse into silence, the deep silence that’s shared only between people who’ve been through hell together. Her thoughts drift to Sven and Train.

It hurts her to admit it, even to herself in her most private thoughts, but her memories of them are starting to go fuzzy. When she tries to call Sven’s face to mind, it’s like looking at him through clouded glass; the shape is there and the colours but the individual features are blurred, indefinable. Her memories of Train are a flash of gold, a snatch of laughter, the smell of gun oil. When she concentrates, she can bring them into sharper focus but she hates that she has to concentrate just to remember their faces.

She can memorise facts and figures with ease but faces slip away from her, like grains of sand through her fingers, like water through a net.

Shao Lee’s become a permanent fixture in her mind these past few months. When someone says ‘ _partner,’_ it’s Sven and Train’s names that come to mind first but he sneaks in on their tails.

“Doctor Flint said you can be discharged today,” she pipes up, the silence suddenly oppressive, “I can do that for you, if you like.”

His soft smile returns and he inclines his head slightly, “It will be nice to get out of here.”

She eyes the stump of his arm again. He catches her staring and raises an eyebrow, his expression questioning. She turns her face away and feels her cheeks flush with colour.

“I don’t mind you looking,” he says, reaching up to grasp where his elbow used to be, “You don’t need to look guilty; you didn’t do anything to it.”

“That’s exactly it!” she says, her voice rising, “I _could_ have done something! I could have stopped that bullet, I could have got it out, and I could have stopped the infection.”

She suspects that he’s holding back; it’s not the first time he’s done it. She’s heard him talking about her to the doctors, about how she should be blaming him for what happened to Sven rather than being angry at herself for what happened to him.

In truth, she does blame him, even if she knows it’s not his fault. He didn’t line Sven up with the other sweepers; he didn’t put a firing squad in front of them or bury them in a mass grave. But he did hide her and hold her back, keeping her from trying to help them.

A hand on her shoulder startles her out of her thoughts and she realises that she’s been staring at Shao Lee’s knee. She looks round to see Doctor Flint standing behind her. The weak fluorescents make his white coat look a sickly green against his dark skin.

“Well, Chronos Number,” he says, his deep voice resounding in the empty wing, “You’ve been here for a couple of weeks; time for you to get out of here. You don’t need me hovering over you all the time now.”

Eve stands up, shrugging the doctor’s hand off of her shoulder, “I should go. I have things that need doing. I can meet you in the cafeteria and then show you to the apartment, if you like.”

Shao Lee’s stare is blank for just a moment before that characteristic smile breaks out over his face, “Of course. I’ll meet you when we’re done.”

She nodded and turned to leave, holding the book against her chest. Doctor Flint ruffles her hair a little as she goes past and he laughs when she smoothes it down again, her expression a little irritated. As she leaves, she hears the doctor take her seat and the low murmur of his voice. She wonders what duties Shao Lee can be assigned now he’s lost an arm; she supposes he’ll be put on dish duty in the kitchens until they can find something more suited to him.

The maze of corridors leading to the cafeteria are dimly lit and the cafeteria itself is no better. Eve’s best guess is that most of the power is directed to the kitchens and the hospital with the rest of the bunker much lower on the priority list. The cafeteria is dull, shabby room with dirty linoleum tables that look like something out of a 1950s flick. There’s a cracked TV screen on the wall that flickers on to broadcast the news every day at exactly 5:00 pm. The clock on the wall says that it’s exactly 4:45 pm.

She slides into a booth at one of the dirty tables and lays the book out in front of her, opening it up to the title page. The ticket stuck to the page indicates it to be a library book, a red stamp across the paper reading “EXPIRED.” She flicks through the book, catching snippets about radioactive wastelands and a search for a missing father. She wonders if the mother ever shows up in the story.

She looks up from the book and catches a woman staring at her from the doorway. Her hair is waist length and, judging from the pale colour of her eyebrows, dyed. Her eyes are light blue and alert. Eve gets the feeling that the woman is trying to place her, trying to remember an important face she saw in a crowd. She meets and holds the woman’s gaze for a moment, neither one of them willing to break away, before the woman shrugs, probably dismissing Eve as nothing important. Eve leans back in the booth, drawing her knees up to her chest and setting the book on her knees; she doesn’t have the patience these days to think about weird women who stared across public spaces.

By the time the TV flickers to life and the introductory music for the news is playing, Eve’s already lost herself in the first few chapters and Shao Lee’s slid in across the table. He’s flexing the fingers on his left hand and Eve can see the red indents on his fingers where he’d been holding his pen.

“It’s not any easier to keep it steady,” he says when he catches her looking. She offers him a sympathetic look before turning her attention back to the book.

“ _Hello, fair citizens,”_ the voice that comes from the TV is smooth as silk and horrifyingly familiar. Eve’s head snaps up and she lays the book on the table, turning her full attention to the TV.

Creed Diskenth is on the screen, addressing a crowd of people in what looks like a market place. A large square has been cleared in front of him, the stalls collapsed and moved away; in their place is a tall structure made of three beams of dark wood tied in a pyramid shape. Two of the beams have straps of leather attached, with heavy buckles. Eve frowns; she’s seen illustrations of such structures in history books borrowed from various libraries.

“ _Today, you will witness us make an example,”_ Creed continues, “ _An example of what happens when you oppress and frighten a population, an example of what happens when you ally yourself with decades of bloodlust and power grabbing.”_

He gestures across the square and the camera follows. Eve sees two Shooting Star soldiers flanking a tall blond man who’s dressed in clothing that reminds Eve of a police uniform. His hair is windswept and there’s a grey, gaunt look about him, as if he hasn’t seen the outside world in months, but he holds his head high with pride. Eve hears a gasp behind her and she glances to see the brown haired woman again.

She looks down at the book on the table again; she doesn’t want to see what’s coming, not really. When she hears to crowd murmuring, she forces herself to look up at the screen again, a sick knot of dread settling in her stomach.

The soldiers have dragged the man across the square and used the leather straps to bind his wrists against the wooden beams. He’s twisted his head round to glare at Creed but Creed only smiles, the expression wicked.

“ _What you are going to witness is not an execution,”_ Creed says, raising a hand to silence the crowd again, _“But a warning. I don’t want to execute a man who had no choice in his start in life; I’m not cruel in that way, unlike Chronos. However, we all know I can’t allow his crimes to go unpunished. He was affiliated with an organisation with truly medieval means and so deserves a rightfully medieval punishment.”_

Eve tears her gaze away and looks at Shao Lee. He’s gone pale and his eyes are wide with shock. She reaches out to lightly touch his knuckles but he doesn’t react, doesn’t look away as the man’s shirt is torn open and his back exposed.

The crack of the whip is what makes her look up from the dirt engrained in the tabletop. The man’s shoulders are hunched with pain, his fingers curled and his knuckles strained white. Creed’s face is smugly satisfied as he watches blood the colour of rubies slide down the man’s back and onto the ground.

 “ _Continue until I say otherwise,”_ Creed instructs the soldier with the whip before he addresses the crowd again, raising his voice over the crack of the whip and the man’s agonised groans, “ _And allow Kranz Maduke to serve as a lesson to you all; the Apostles of the Star will **not** allow the puppets of Chronos to go unpunished.”_

There’s another lash of the whip and then the screen goes black, cutting off a strangled cry of pain. Eve hears Shao Lee let out a low, shuddering breath. She feels ill and she can feel a ball of anger building under her sternum. They’re hidden right in the heart of Apostles country, tucked safely in a secret underground bunker, so she’d always known they’d see what Creed was doing covered in the news. But airing a man’s flogging for the entire region to see…it was sick and it was twisted, no matter who he’d been.

“Are you all right?” she asks Shao Lee when she feels him wrap his fingers around her hand.

He nods, “I’m fine. Or I will be. Kranz is unpleasant, to say the least, but it still feels…excessive.”

Eve doesn’t bother pointing out that Chronos went further than flogging; they executed their enemies, sometimes in an over the top fashion, if Seiren was a weapon that wasn’t considered strange.

“But…?” she prompts. She knows there’s a but because there always is.

“But,” he hesitates for a moment, “But I’m glad, _relieved,_ that it was him in that square and not me.”

She nods but doesn’t say anything. She feels the exact same way and it sickens her.

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing,” Shao Lee says, “I can’t sit and do dish washing and then be given some dull work that ignores everything that goes on up there. It’s immoral.”

He peeks up at her through his bangs, his eyes weary and his face drawn. He looks much older all of a sudden, “I’m sorry I brought you here. I should have taken you somewhere safer, where you could hide and ride out this storm. But you’re here now and you’ll have your part to play, I’m sure, whether it’s a part you want or not.”

Eve smiles wryly, “I know. I have to save Train and I might have an idea how. The Princess has her part and she’ll see it through to the end. You can count on that.”

She reached out to gently take hold of his chin, lifting his face to look at her, “And I only realised it because of the Magician.”


	9. Prince Lir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we discover a new, significant survivor.

_“Yes, of course,” he said. “That is exactly what heroes are for. Wizards make no difference, so they say that nothing does, but heroes are meant to die for unicorns.” He let go of Schmendrick’s shoulder, smiling to himself._

* * *

 

 

It’s strange, sharing her apartment at night. Eve knew Shao Lee would be in with her; no one else in the bunker wanted him, skirting around him like he carried a disease. Silphy offers sympathy when she sees him, her own face marred by a burn scar.

Now, it’s midnight and Shao Lee’s fast asleep, the blankets pulled up so that only the top of his head is visible in the murky light. Eve lies awake, listening to his soft breathing, a knot of worry forming in her chest. Since he’s out of the hospital now with a full bill of health, she doesn’t know what they’ll have him doing once they work out his capabilities. She’s heard rumours of a high up Chronos official in the bunker, someone with their eye on Shao Lee. She just doesn’t want him taken from her, like Train and Sven were; it’s childish and selfish but she can’t help it.

_‘It’s OK to be scared. You’re still a kid. Fuck, I’m scared and I’m a lot older than I look. Cry if you want; I won’t look.’_

She groans and drags her hands down her face, suddenly frustrated and exasperated. She’s tired and confused and she knows she hasn’t been the same since the world went to hell in a hand basket. It reminds her of when she left Rudman with Sven but now the choices don’t seem so black and white. When she left Rudman, the choice had been so simple; go with Sven, see the world, become a sweeper. Now? She’s torn between protecting Shao Lee and keeping him alive, something which is rooted in a selfish desire to keep someone close, or convincing him to volunteer his talents to help gather information if he’s asked.

His talents…

Eve sits up in bed and looks down at her hands. Shao Lee is known as the Magician because of his ability to change his appearance in the blink of an eye. She had been created with the ability to change her shape into whatever she could imagine.

Could she replicate what he did?

She gets out of bed and creeps out of the apartment, being careful not to wake Shao Lee. She makes her way down the dim hallway to the shared bathroom, the floor cold and harsh against her bare feet.

The bathroom mirror is cracked and spotted with age. Eve leans forward towards the mirror, leaning on the sink basin, and studies her reflection. She actually looks better fed here now that she’s on three full meals a day. Her hair’s a darker blonde now, the result of little sunlight. She closes her eyes and concentrated, drawing up a face from her memories, willing her own features to match.

When she opens her eyes, it’s not her own face that looks back at her from the mirror; instead, she finds herself looking at the face of Rinslet Walker. Her hair is still blonde and falling down past her shoulders and she’s still small and slight but her face is a perfect match for Rinslet. She sighs and lets the picture in her mind go, her own features sliding back into place.

Now she knows; all she needs now is to maintain it without concentration.

Eve shivers and pulls her pyjamas closer as she heads back to the apartments. She frowns; the door is ajar, even though she knows that she’d closed it behind her. Quietly, she creeps up alongside the doorway, pressing up against it and listening to the voices inside the apartment. She catches snatches of conversation, hearing mentions of an army, a back injury and the world going up in flames.

Peering through the crack in the door, she sees Shao Lee’s awake, his hair tousled. He’s sitting up in bed, the woman with brown hair standing alongside him. He’s leaning forwards, his forehead resting against the woman’s hip, his arm wrapped around her waist. The woman’s fingers are tangled in his hair, smoothing it down, easing out the knots. Eve feels like she’s stumbled on an intimate moment between the pair, a bubble of time that should only be shared by the pair of them. For a moment, she leans against the doorframe, willing away any trace of Rinslet from her features, before she pushes the door open and slips inside again.

Shao Lee lifts his head and peers up at her from underneath the woman’s arms, his eyes slightly watery, and offers a weak smile. Eve regards the woman warily as she makes her way back to her bed, sitting on the thin mattress and tucking her legs underneath her.

“Sorry,” she says, pulling the blankets over her.

“Don’t be,” Shao Lee says, pulling away from the woman completely, “Are you all right?”

There’s genuine concern in his voice and his eyebrows are pinched with worry. The woman moves aside and takes a seat on the rickety chair that’s between the two beds. Eve tilts her chin towards her.

“Who is she?”

“Ah,” Shao Lee hesitates before looking over at the woman, “She’s my captain.”

Eve looks the woman up and down, taking in her tall slender physique, her long legs, her delicate face with those piercing blue eyes. Slowly, her overtired brain makes the connections and her eyes widen in realisation. She’s met this woman before.

Then her eyes narrow again and she glares at them both, a strange dark anger boiling in her chest.

“If she’s the leader of the Chronos Numbers,” she says, “Why is she here? You should be _doing_ something!”

Shao Lee looks suddenly uncomfortable; it’s clear to Eve that’s he’s been thinking the same thing but is unwilling to say anything to his superior. Sephiria Arks sighs and reaches up to grip the brown hair, pulling the wig forwards and allowing her natural ash blonde hair to fall down around her face in soft curls. The numeral on her forehead is suddenly glaring and obvious.

“You’re right,” she says, “I should have done more. If it weren’t for this bunker, for these people down here, I doubt that I’d have survived this far.”

She reaches round to lightly touch the small of her back, her expression mournful and slightly lost. Eve looks towards Shao Lee but he offers no clues, no answers. She’ll have to wait and hear the story from Sephiria herself.

“I should have died that day,” Sephiria says, “In service of Chronos.” She fixes Eve with a sympathetic look, “I should have fought harder; if I had, then you wouldn’t need to be here.”

She’s referring to Sven and the massacre that happened at that mansion; Sephiria was just someone else blaming herself for Creed’s actions. Eve wants to say that it’s not her fault but she can’t bring herself to. Maybe if Sephiria had done more when Creed had defected from Chronos, when he’d emerged at Lunafort Tower, when he’d attacked the conference. Unlike Shao Lee, Sephiria had had the power annihilate Creed from the very beginning but she hadn’t; she hadn’t done enough and now the world was on the fast train to Hell and it felt like no one was doing anything to stop it.

Sephiria’s posture changes and she slumps forward, her arms around her middle and her head bowed, “It should have been me in that square, not Kranz. I didn’t do enough. I didn’t prepare fast enough. Creed was _right there_ and I could have ended it then and there if only I had my last resort on that day.”

Her voice is raw with emotion. Shao Lee’s expression shifts from anxiety to sympathy. Eve looks down at her hands; she’d seen how Shao Lee’s guilt had eaten him up before and she knows that Sephiria’s encompasses not only what happened to the Sweeper’s Alliance but also the other Chronos Numbers and everyone else that Creed was planning to destroy. The weight of the world had come crashing down on her shoulders and Eve thinks that it’s a wonder she hasn’t collapsed underneath it yet.

It just brings up more revulsion towards Chronos; it had used people as weapons and had left them with no way out of its shadow when it collapsed.

Eve shifts her legs from underneath her before she speaks, “I don’t think you should have died. Having a death wish won’t bring Sven back or any of the other Numbers.”

“Eve,” Shao Lee starts but Sephiria cuts him off with wave of her hand.

“I wouldn’t say it’s a death wish,” she says, “More of…thinking if, buts and could have beens. _If_ I’d fought harder things could have been different; _but_ there was more Chronos could have done; we _could have_ withdrawn all our efforts elsewhere and thrown everything at them. Realistically though? I doubt very much we would have come away without considerable damage to both Chronos and the nations we supported.”

She pauses and purses her lips, “We thought we were prepared but the bottom line is we underestimated Creed.”

Eve nods. Personally, she thinks that Chronos had grown too big for its boots, that it had overestimated its capabilities. No empire lasts forever and they should have known that.

“How did you survive?” she asks. She thinks that she probably interrupted Sephiria’s telling of her tale because Shao Lee’s face lights with interest again.

“It was luck,” Sephiria says, “Pure and simple.” She catches Shao Lee’s eye before she continues, “And slightly embarrassing. I was caught in a roof collapse; the Apostles had laid explosives and there were still people inside. I thought that if I got them out, if we just had more manpower, we’d stand a better chance.”

She stops then, her hand again hovering over the small of her back. Her eyes have hardened with a mix of grief and anger. It’s now that Eve sees the shadow of Chronos Number I ghosting across the woman’s face, the same way she’d seen the ghost of Number XIII when Train was furious.

“It was irrational and illogical,” Sephiria says, “I thought that if I could save those men, I could save my Numbers, I could salvage the situation. Then the building came down and I was pinned. I don’t remember much after that; I heard them saying something about my corpse but after that there’s nothing until Doctor Flint and his team brought me here.”

Luck; the word’s dirty in Eve’s mouth. She and Shao Lee had encountered very little good luck on their way to this bunker. Their misfortune had hung over them like a heavy black cloud, bringing with it grief that wracked the body, gunshots and the stink of infection. She accepts the story without question though, reasoning that there’s no point in asking any details. She knows for herself how far Doctor Flint goes with his teams, looking for survivors of Apostle attacks, and she understands how the situation can push even the sharpest people into being illogical in their goals.

While she feels that Sephiria’s not being entirely honest and forthcoming, she accepts her story because she’s sick of doubting everything.

Eve lies down, suddenly exhausted, and pulls the blanket up over her shoulders. She closes her eyes but carries on listening to the two Chronos Numbers. She hears Sephiria ask about the exact circumstances that caused Shao Lee to need his arm amputated; she opens one eye to see Shao Lee glance towards her before he tells her about it. She shuts her eye again, content to pretend to be asleep and just listen.

‘ _It wasn’t your fault,’_ Eve thinks to herself, ‘ _You didn’t do that to him.’_

“Poor thing,” Sephiria says, “This isn’t her war.”

Springs creak as Shao Lee shifts his weight on the bed, “It became hers when they came after her. She wants to be here, Sephiria. She just wants to help people and there doesn’t seem to be any other way for her to do so and still be protected from Creed.”

“She’s just a child, Number X,” Sephiria sounds tired, resigned, “Whether she wanted to help or not, you shouldn’t involve her in this.”

“Don’t be that way, Captain. Yeah, she’s a kid but she’s as good as any sweeper,” Shao Lee says. Eve feels a warm glow spring up in her chest, “Besides, I could hardly refuse to bring her.

“Of course you would say that,” Sephiria says primly. Eve hears her stand and walk over to the door, “You’re a Chronos Number but you’re still young; you put honour before duty and that’s understandable. As for me, duty comes first, and duty dictates that I give up my life to shield civilians from monsters like Creed Diskenth, even when the world gives me the opportunity to forge a new life.”


	10. King Haggard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is talk of Chronos Numbers, experimentation and living forever

_“They are mine,” he said softly, “they belong to me. The Red Bull gathered them for me, one at a time, and I bade him drive each one into the sea. What a better place could be there to keep unicorns, and what other cage could hold them? For the Bull keeps guard over them, awake or asleep, and he daunted their hearts long ago. Now they live in the sea, and every tide still carries them with an easy step of the land, but they dare not take that step, they dare not come out of the water. They are afraid of the Red Bull.”_

* * *

 

 

When Nizer regains consciousness, his hands are tied in front of him with thick twine. The floor beneath him is cold, smooth; marble is his best guess. His head is pounding and the rest of him feels battered and bruised. Through the fog that’s only just starting to clear in his mind, he can make out the sound of voices.

“I got you one Number,” one voice says, low and gruff, “So you need to pay up.”

 “Have some patience,” that’s Creed. A red splinter of annoyance and anger pierces the fog and Nizer twists his wrists, trying to work his way out of the rope, “And would you look at that; our friend’s starting to wake up.”

There’s the sound of footsteps and then the tip of a blade is pressed against the hollow of his throat. Nizer forces his eyes open and cranes his head to look up at Creed. Creed’s eyebrow is cocked and arrogant.

“Nice to see you again,” Creed says, turning his head to the side, “I hope my friend here hasn’t roughed you up too much.”

“I’ve had worse,” Nizer replies coldly, “Courtesy of your woman.”

“Ah, you mean Echidna. Clearly, it wasn’t “worse” enough.”

The tip of the sword nicks his skin and Nizer feels blood trickle down his neck. Creed just looks distracted and distant. He looks at the other man, the one who’d been demanding payment. His expression changes to being more annoyed than anything.

“You get paid half,” he says sharply, “The deal was you find me two Chronos Numbers. I get one. I don’t understand how you failed to get me someone who could barely walk.”

Nizer feels a sense of satisfaction settle over him; at least Jenos got away. Creed’s sword moves to slice the rope that bound his hands together and he sits up, rubbing at his wrists. He twists round to look at the man who’d caught him. The man holds his weight on one foot, the thigh of one leg wrapped in bloodied gauze.

“We didn’t know about the _third_ one,” he spits, “The guy was nuts; was even willing to risk splattering the brains of the girl he was with to get away.”

“Third one?” Creed frowns, “Who?”

The man shrugs, “I don’t know his name. But he blew my friend’s head apart and beat a man to death like it was nothing.”

Well, that had to be Baldor. Nizer had gotten the impression that he’d mellowed out somehow but, perhaps, that would be too much of a miracle.

“The number,” Creed says, his tone eager and curious, “Did you see the number.”

“…Number eight,” the man says, “I think it was eight. Not that I saw it well; that bitch near enough blinded me and that bastard gave her the gun to shoot my knee.”

“Oh, now, this is just wonderful,” Creed says, overjoyed. Nizer tries to ignore him, instead wanting to focus on untying the rope that binds his ankles, “Did you hear that Kranz? Your beloved Baldor is still alive!”

Nizer’s head whipped up at that and he glanced around the room, searching for Kranz. He sees the other Number being held up on his feet by a pair of Creed’s soldiers, the floor around him sprinkled with drops of red. He’s grey with pain. Nizer hadn’t even known he was in the room; he’s quieter than Nizer would have expected. He catches Kranz’s gaze and holds it, noting as an expression of horror crosses the other Number’s face.

“Now what’s that face for?” Creed says, raising his sword to run his hand over the invisible blade, “I thought you’d be happy.”

 Nizer can see the anger simmering beneath Kranz’s surface. For the first time since he’d known the other Number, he finds himself hoping that Kranz will lose his temper. He knows that it would have awful consequences, possibly for both of them, but it would be so satisfying to see him lose it against Creed.

“Maybe we should have him brought here,” Creed muses, “Perhaps that would put a smile on your face.”

“And see you set yourself against him in that pathetic arena? That would make me happy.”

“You think that he’d stand a chance?”

“He wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t,” Nizer interjects after managing to undo the knots and get to his feet. He itches for a smoke, “And I think you’ve gotten too confident.”

Creed curls his lip, “Feel free to enlighten me later.” To the man with the bandaged leg: “When you track down Number VIII, don’t try to take him on your own; wait for my soldiers. I want to break him myself.”

It’s as if something snaps. Blood splatters on the ground as Kranz moves to tackle Creed, only stopped when one of the soldiers at his side manages to snatch hold of the thick collar around his neck, making him gag. It’s only when he tries to twist free that Nizer sees his back has been flayed open. The expression of pure anger on his face is enough to make even Nizer nervous. Creed just smiles.

“Oh, Kranz,” he says, “I thought we’d made a real breakthrough with your manners. I didn’t want to have to do this but maybe the Doctor can give you something for that _attitude problem.”_

His condescending tone just seems to annoy Kranz further, “Fuck you.”

Creed just tuts and waved him away. Nizer watches as Kranz is hauled out of the hall, the door slamming on a venomous glare. Creed simply looks amused, even while the bandaged man looks disturbed at the other Number’s sudden outburst. The blood that had dropped onto the floor is already drying to a dark, rust red.

“Go to Echidna,” Creed says to the bleeding man, “And she’ll pay you.” He swings his arm around so that the sword is pointing at Nizer again, “You stay.”

The man hobbles out, more scarlet blood seeping through the bandage on his leg. Creed takes a seat again, his face turning thoughtful. Nizer sees the air above his knees rippling and he knows that the sword is no longer a threat to him.

“Now that,” Creed says, “Was certainly interesting, don’t you think?”

“Kranz? He has a temper; everyone knows that,” Nizer says curtly, not willing to be drawn into conversation about Kranz with Creed Diskenth.

Creed nods, “True. Very true. But still interesting.”

He fixes Nizer with his icy blue stare, scrutinising him. Through the open window, Nizer can hear the sound of waves crashing against the shore. So it’s an island…?

“Well, regardless of Kranz’s moods, I confess to be in a rather good one,” Creed’s smile returns, “It’s so satisfying when you make an addition to a collection.”

Nizer frowns, “You’re collecting Chronos Numbers?”

He doesn’t appreciate being considered part of a “collection” as if he’s property. Creed’s grin only widens and he leans back in his chair, cocking his head to his side.

“Everything under this roof is my property, Number V,” he says, as if he’s read Nizer’s thoughts, “You, the other Apostles, my soldiers. Even Kranz, although he’s proven more trouble than I would have liked. Do you know why I chose an island, Nizer?”

“The inner workings of your mind never cease to confuse me,” Nizer says dryly.

“Because the sea provides an excellent barrier,” Creed launches into an explanation, “Walls, they can be scaled; fences, they can be destroyed, as can hedges. The sea? It’s unpredictable and ever changing so many people don’t dare cross it, despite what may lie on the other side. An island provides a safe place in the middle of this barrier. What better place to keep Chronos Numbers?”

“You’re taking a leap of faith, assuming no one can cross it,” Nizer says, slightly disturbed by the fact that he’s holding such a casual conversation with Creed Diskenth, the man who’d plunged the world into chaos.

“Take Kranz for example,” Creed continues, waving one hand dismissively, “I’ve made him an offer that would allow him to leave, give him a chance of escape. But he refused it. He pretends it’s out of duty for Chronos but I think it’s because he’s afraid; afraid of how much the world’s changed, of how much he might have changed. And it’s that fear that makes him mine.”

His eyes glitter, “And I’ll find a way to make every last Number mine in that same way.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s three days after the public flogging, after those hours of blinding pain and utter humiliation, that Creed comes to Kranz again. He lies on his stomach, his chin resting on his forearms, while the wounds on his back scab over in the open air. The slightest movement sends waves of pain washing over him. It’s now that he thinks that he realises why Creed had kept him alive; he’s the example, the poster boy for the consequences of affiliating with Chronos. And now that Creed has Nizer as well, Kranz can’t help but wonder if his time is up. However, that still left one question; why had he been patched up rather than killed?

Creed pulls a chair up alongside the low military cot that Kranz is stretched out on, sitting and resting his sword across his knees. Kranz glowers at him but Creed pays him no heed.

“I have something for you,” Creed says eventually, “You can thank Charden for it.”

He draws Mars out of his pocket and places it on the thin mattress. Kranz gently traces over the handle and the blade. It’s wonderfully familiar but he knows it isn’t here as the “gift” Creed’s presenting it as. He withdraws his hand again, curling his fingers and tucking his fist under his chin.

“Always so suspicious Kranz,” Creed says, his expression one of mock disappointment, “No catch…for now. You can have your knife back. I don’t need you just yet.”

Kranz narrows his eyes but doesn’t speak; his voice is hoarse and his throat raw from that day in the square. Creed’s own blade shimmers under the dull light. He reaches for Mars again, watching Creed the whole time, and draws the knife close, pressing his forehead against the cool metal. The edge of the blade digs in to his forehead but he doesn’t care.

“Now then,” Creed says, “I have a proposition for you.”

Kranz scowls and Creed raises a hand before he can say anything. “You rejected it the first time, all those months ago,” he says, leaning forwards, “But you’re a different man now, I’m sure of it.”

He fingers the thick black control collar around Kranz’s neck, “I mean, back then, you’d never accept _this_ so quietly.”

Kranz coughs, grimacing slightly as it jars his back, “What’s your point?”

“You’re bored and done with the arena fights,” Creed says, “I can see that. You want the world outside these walls. Helping me bring your fellow Numbers here, gathering you all together again, will allow you that. You’ll be kept on an extraordinarily tight leash but surely you’re used to that.”

“Why? Why do you want us so much?”

“This and that,” Creed shrugs, “I have my plans and place for you all. All roads lead the same way but I’ll get my fair use out of you all.”

Kranz holds Mars by the end of the handle, the tip of the knife piercing the sheet beneath him, “I could kill you right now. Slit your throat, pierce your heart. I could end it all here and now.”

“But you won’t,” Creed says, his voice like steel, “Because you’re injured and you’re not that stupid. Besides, you haven’t given me an answer yet.”

Kranz knows exactly  where the roads Creed’s referring to lead; a bullet to the brain and an unmarked grave. It’s too late for him and Nizer. But Jenos and anyone else who remains? They still have a chance to run, to fight back, to _live._

“No,” he says, shifting and tightening his grip on Mars, “You asked me before and my answer was no. I won’t do that to them.”

Creed sighs but Kranz can’t tell if it’s mournful or just exasperated. He watches as Creed reaches into his pocket and pulls out something that looks like a stopwatch.

“I can be a merciful man, Kranz,” he says, “Merciful to those who intrigue me, those I admire, those I feel I need to save. Tell me where you think you fall?”

“Your extermination list if my guess,” Kranz says, bitter and annoyed.

“Quite the contrary,” Creed says, examining the device in his hand, “Your undying loyalty interests me. How did Chronos instil it and why doesn’t it waver even nearly a year after their demise? And it’s this same loyalty I need to save you from, to liberate you from. Only then will you be on my extermination list.”

He fixes Kranz with an icy stare, “I will break you, Kranz Maduke. Because that’s the only way to save a man like you and if I can do it to you, I can do it to everyone.”

He pushes a dial on the device in his hand and, for a moment, nothing happens. After that moment, Kranz feels something snap in his head, followed by an explosion of pain.

 

* * *

 

 

Nizer had been sitting against the wall of his cell, staring up at the ceiling. He wishes for cracks in the ceiling so he could at least have something to count and keep his mind occupied. When the door swings open, he feels relieved; anything to get rid of this crushing boredom.

“Master Creed wants you,” the guard says, “Get up.”

He feels a flicker of surprise. He’d been expecting the cold doctor who’d examined him like he was some kind of specimen. He obeys regardless, wanting to avoid the business end of the guard’s truncheon.

The guard leads him further into the complex, into a corridor that smells of wet pennies. Nizer wrinkles his nose; he knows that smell. It’s blood and quite a lot of it. The guard points him at the only cell with an open door. Hesitantly, he looks in.

The lashes on Kranz’s back have split open again. The other Number lies hunched on a narrow bed, his back saturated in brilliant red blood. It’s soaking into the meagre bedclothes and dribbles along his neck, vanishing under that thick collar. He’s clutching at his head, his palms against his temples, his fingers tugging at his hair. Creed stands over him, expressionless.

“What have you done to him?” Nizer asks, staring aghast at the blood that colours the floor, the wall and slicks Kranz’s back.

“No concern of yours, Nizer,” Creed  says smoothly, “I’ve asked you here to clean him up, not to question me.”

Nizer moves to Kranz’s side, assessing the damage, “What do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know!” Creed snaps, suddenly vibrant and annoyed rather than smooth and uncaring, “And I don’t particularly care. Just make sure he doesn’t die; I don’t want him dead just yet.”

He sweeps out of the cell. A bucket of hot water and a doctor’s bag are left just inside the door before it’s closed and Nizer’s locked in with the shuddering, bleeding Kranz. He fetches the bucket and the bag, setting them down alongside the bed.

“Deep breaths Kranz,” he says, pulling a clean cloth from the bag and dipping it into the water, hissing slightly at the heat, “This will sting a bit.”

“No shit,” Kranz says between laboured breaths, his hands balling into fists at his sides, his nails creating half-moon crescents on his palms.

Nizer wrings out the steaming cloth before gently pressing it against the lash across Kranz’s shoulders. Kranz arches his back, biting back a cry of pain.

“You don’t need to keep quiet and stoic,” Nizer says, plunging the cloth back into the bucket, “I’m pretty sure it’s acceptable to scream in this situation.”

Nizer repeats the process until all the blood’s been mopped up and he can see each laceration, scarlet and raw on Kranz’s back, until the water’s gone dark red with blood. The lashes are still sluggishly bleeding and Kranz’s breathing has turned shallow and ragged. He trembles as Nizer applies the sterile white gauze pads to stem the bleeding and it’s with shaking arms that he pushes himself up so that Nizer can bandage him.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” Nizer comments as Kranz eases himself off of the bed.

“I’ve never been this pathetic before,” Kranz says. He watches, slightly hunched, as Nizer strips the bloodied  sheets off of the bed.

“You’re not pathetic,” Nizer says, marvelling at the fact that he’s having a proper conversation with Kranz, a man who kept to himself at the best of times. He couldn’t actually remember the last time they’d shared more than three words.

“I feel it,” Kranz confesses, his face grey with pain.

“Hm?” Nizer gestured for him to sit down again, “You should have seen Jenos after Chronos fell. I had to carry him everywhere at first, his leg was so bad. And when that improved, he got sick.”

A ghost of a smile flickers on Kranz’s mouth but his face darkens at the mention of Chronos. He remains an enigma, clouded and closed off. It’s this, Nizer realises, that’s kept Creed from breaking him down over these past months; keeping his emotions controlled, his deepest thoughts a carefully kept secret, he’s protected himself by not allowing Creed a foothold. He holds onto his loyalties, his past and tries using him to build a wall to protect himself as best he can.

But, looking at him, Nizer can see that there are cracks. Isolation and humiliation have hammered away at that shield, damaging it and knocking it. Nizer can see it in the other Number’s downcast eyes, the slump of his shoulders. If Creed’s found a way of getting to Kranz, and Nizer thinks it might be the case, it’s likely he won’t last much longer.

“You’re staring,” Kranz says, leaning against the wall with a flinch and crossing his legs.

“Sorry,” Nizer averts his eyes again. He can feel Kranz’s own gaze scrutinising him. It’s odd He hasn’t even _seen_ Kranz’s eyes for a long time, let alone being examined by him.

“How did you get your eyesight back?” he asks, glancing back up at Kranz.

Kranz rubs at the numeral tattoo above his eye, “I’m an experiment.”

“Explain?”

“Nanomachines and their regenerative qualities,” Kranz’s mouth twists into a wry smile, “Apparently, I was an excellent specimen of complete blindness.”

“Who?” Nizer’s thoughts immediately go to Creed, though he doubts Creed has the skills and the knowledge to work in depth with nanomachines.

“He calls himself the Doctor,” Kranz replies, “And Creed wants him to make the Apostles immortal.”

Nizer feels a chill descend over him, making the blood run cold in his veins. Now he understands what Creed meant when he said that the Chronos Numbers would be his; he wants them for his experiments, removing any agency and control they have, and keeping them under his thumb.


	11. Interlude: the King and the Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we breakaway to check in with unlucky Thirteen

_"Why do you linger at the window?" he demanded, "What are you looking at?"_

_"I am looking at the sea," said the Lady Amalthea. Her voice was low and tremulous; not with fear, but with life, as a new butterfly shivers in the sun._

* * *

 

Train’s not afforded the same freedoms he’d once had. Whereas once he’d been allowed to leave Creed’s private quarters, chaperoned and heavily observed, he’s now no longer permitted to go anywhere. Creed doesn’t even like him near windows. He’s become more controlling and Train has the sneaking suspicion that he knows something is going on among his Apostles but can’t act without appearing weak, paranoid and entirely unbalanced. Even Creed’s aware enough to know that such behaviour could undercut him and his leadership.

“Train,” Creed purrs from behind him, “What are you looking at?”

Train doesn’t move away from the window and doesn’t immediately offer an answer. What had he been looking at? The sea. Why? From the sea, freedom. He loathes being collared again, trapped, and caged. He yearns for the outside; for a salty breeze through his hair, for the sun on his neck, the streets under his feet.

“The sea,” he replies. The water ripples blue under the sky, the waves swelling and breaking in a burst of white foam. In his mind’s eye, he pictures a tiny figure fighting against the waves, swimming away to freedom and safety. He remembers what he’d said to Kranz on that day in the rose garden and his mouth twists up in a sardonic smile.

‘ _Swim, Kranz,’_ he thinks, ‘ _Swim until you can’t see land, until you’re safe.’_

Train knows he can’t flee to the ocean. If he does, Creed will track down the Princess, give her to the Doctor to be cut to pieces in their twisted pursuit of science.

He’d already lost two friends because of Creed. He isn’t about to lose Eve as well.

“Ah, the sea,” Creed says, joining him at the window, “I never cared much for it. She changes too much for my liking.”

He pauses in thought for a moment. Train turns to look at him, study him. His posture is relaxed and confident, his expression smugly satisfied. Train’s learnt to know what that expression means, what to associate it with. Or rather, _who_ to associate it with. He hasn’t heard anything of the Apostles fishing up another Chronos Number and Nizer’s apparently been especially tight lipped about who, if anyone, remains.

“You went to Kranz,” he says, his voice flat.

“Of course,” Creed confirms, “He’s become quite the interesting experiment, don’t you think?”

“You’re not experimenting; you’re being sadistic and toying with him for the sake of it,” Train says hotly, “You’re just being cruel.”

“How can I be cruel? Cruelty is for ordinary men.”

Train goes back to trying to ignore him. He doesn’t want to bother with Creed’s delusions that he’s more than a man. He’s more interested in what’s going on with Kranz. After all, cats are renowned for their curiosity and Train knows his weaknesses.

“What are you planning Train?” Creed’s voice has taken on a dangerous edge, “Not another escape, I hope.”

Train thinks back to the incident that Creed’s referring to; he’d been caught in the tree tops, scanning for a place where the branches clear the walls. That had been when Creed had made his threat to Eve explicitly clear.

“I told you it wasn’t an escape attempt. If it was, do you really think I’d give up so easily?”

Creed narrows his eyes, “Had you been anyone else, I would have put you in that arena and allowed Kranz to tear you apart.”

Train remembers those fights in the arena, where Creed had pitted Kranz against his soldiers for entertainment to see who was superior. Train had predicted the outcome each time. He knew there was only one result of pitting unknowing soldiers against an angry, fanatical Chronos Number.

“You’d have been in for a long match,” he says coldly, “Apart from Sephiria, and maybe Belze, the Chronos Numbers were more or less evenly matched.”

“And yet you remain,” Creed says, “While your apparent superior Sephiria’s skeleton lies crushed under the remnants of Chronos.”

Train’s hand twitched, tempted to brush Creed away as if he’s a fly.

“So she won a final victory over you,” he says, knowing he’s treading on dangerous ground, knowing what he’s saying isn’t entirely true, “Killing herself and denying you the pleasure. Must piss you off, knowing she had you figured out right to the end. I admire her for that more than I’ll admire anything you do.”

It’s then that Creed strikes him, catching him with a harsh backhand that sends him to the floor, his head jerking to the side. His teeth saw at the inside of his cheek and he tastes blood. He spits blood out onto the carpet and glares up at Creed. Creed’s eyes are blazing.

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses, “Speak about her with that tone again. I’d expect it from Kranz and Nizer, deluded idiots that they are, but you? You’re better than that, better than they are! That’s why you left Chronos and left them in the dust!”

His voices rises in anger with every word and his eyes have a dangerous, maniacal glint. Train runs his tongue over the ragged flesh on the inside of his cheek and he refuses to break eye contact. He’s sick of the pedestal that Creed’s put him on.

“If you don’t want me talking in a way that you don’t like,” he says, getting to his feet again, “Then maybe you should use that fancy sword of yours and cut my tongue out of my mouth.”

Creed sneers at him, “Don’t tempt me, Train.”

And then it’s almost as if the anger drains out of him and he turns away with a sigh that’s nearly mournful. He’s baffling and bizarre and Train doesn’t understand him any more than he had the first day that they’d met.

“Tell me,” Train says, “Why do you treat me so differently to the others?”

“Because here, on this island?” Creed turns to look at him again, “I see flickers of the Black Cat again, signs of the man I need at my side. I see him in the way you look at my soldiers, at my Apostles and even when you look at me. And I know I can bring him back, if I just keep pushing.”

Train blinks, slightly surprised. He’d thought he was nothing more than a war trophy, representing Creed’s triumph over sweepers and law enforcement; he’d thought that Creed had long given up on bringing Number XIII back.

“But, had things been different, I’d have thrown you in with the others with my own hands,” Creed’s eyes harden, “And I still might. Call you Number XIII and give you to the Doctor, like the other Numbers. My patience isn’t infinite, Train, not even for you.”

On that note, he sweeps out of the room, leaving Train alone with a bruised cheek and the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.


	12. The Hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a reunion between old friends but not of the positive kind

_The men rode in silence until they were nearing the edge of the forest, when the second hunter asked quietly, “Why did they go away, do you think? If there ever were such things.”_

_“Who knows? Times change. Would you call this age a good one for unicorns?”_

 

* * *

“Has anyone ever told you that you drive like a sweet little old lady?” Jenos asks, wincing as Baldor presses an alcohol swab against his forehead. The cut’s gone deeper than he thought and they’ve only just managed to stem the bleeding.

Baldor snorts, “I don’t do anything like a sweet little old lady.”

They’re in a shabby motel room; Jenos sits on one of the beds, his head tilted up slightly so Baldor can clean and patch up his injury. Baldor’s been stripped of his shirt, the only one not stained with blood, by Rinslet who’s retreated into the shower. Jenos can see all the nicks and scars that make up the story of Baldor’s life; a life of violence indicated by a mark from a gunshot graze on his shoulder, an outline of shrapnel above his hip and countless others.

“Sure you do. Everyone does.”

Baldor throws the swab into the bin and takes a white patch out of the first aid kit, tearing the wrapper off with his teeth.

“And what do you do?” he asks, pressing the sterile patch over the injury above Jenos’s eyebrow, “What do you do like a little old lady?”

“At the moment?” Jenos taps his knee as Baldor pulls away, “Walk.”

That earns him a smile from the other Number, small and genuine. Jenos lightly touches the medical patch over his eyebrow and cocks his head to the side, scrutinizing Baldor for the first time. The red scar twists across his hip, jagged and ugly. It’s much more jarring than any of the others.

“Hey,” Jenos says, nodding towards the scar, “How’d you fuck that one up so bad?”

For a moment, Baldor’s face clouded with an expression that was dark and sour, like a sky darkening before a storm. Jenos expects a snap, to be told that it’s none of his business. Instead, he gets a long hesitation, as if Baldor has no idea if or how to explain himself.

“I didn’t let it heal properly,” he says eventually, picking up the first aid kit to put it away.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want it to.”

From Baldor’s tone, Jenos assumes he’s not going to explain any further. Jenos shrugs and leans back on his hands. He’s not particularly concerned with Baldor’s injuries; Baldor’s seen a lot worse than a stab wound, he’s seen it himself.

Then again, considering _who_ did it, it’s not just a stab wound.

“Hey,” he says, catching Baldor’s attention again. He nods towards the scar, “He probably didn’t mean to do it.”

Baldor stiffened, his back going rigid and his shoulders tightening. Jenos knows he’s probably said the wrong thing, especially considering the fact that they have to share this small space for at least a day, but he also knows it’s something Baldor probably needs to hear. He watches for the other Number’s reaction but his expression remains closed off.

“You might be right,” Baldor says, slipping the first aid kit into a plastic bag, “But he should have known better.”

The bathroom door opened and Rinslet emerges in a cloud of lavender scented steam, a thin white towel wrapped around her hair, dressed in her dusty black jeans and Baldor’s shirt, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. She looks between the two Numbers, one eyebrow raised but neither of them offer any explanation for the tension that hovers between the pair.

“You really make that look work, Rins,” Jenos says with a smile, “Should wear it more often.”

Rinslet rolls her eyes, “I make every look work. Even men’s clothing.”

She bows her head and unwraps the towel, shaking out her damp hair. She rakes her fingers through her hair, easing out the tangles, before she ties it up into a ponytail. Her fringe hangs damp and stringy over her forehead.

“So, what do we need?” she says, counting off on her fingers, “Spare clothes, food, scouting for petrol for the car. Anything else?”

Jenos shrugs, “It’s your money, baby.”

Baldor doesn’t offer Rinslet a reply. Rinslet grabs the cap that she’d found left in one of the drawers and jams it on her head, covering up her distinctive hair colour. She looks at herself in the mirror and scrunches her nose up.

“The hat ruins it,” she says, “But it’s necessary.” She pockets her purse, “Take care, boys.”

She leaves the motel room and Jenos can hear her footsteps through the thin walls. Baldor stretches out on the other bed, glaring moodily at the ceiling. Jenos rubs at his knee absently, trying to soothe the dull throbbing.

“It’s a reminder,” Baldor says abruptly, “That’s why I didn’t let it heal.”

Jenos nods, “Well, that’s kind of twisted.”

“You expected something else?”

“Honestly? No.”

They lapse into silence again. They’ve never really been able to have a decent conversation because of their differences. Jenos always saw Baldor as too bull-headed and narrow minded; Baldor thought Jenos too flighty and easily distracted. They aren’t about to start being chatty now.

Jenos steals a glance at Baldor again and sees the other Number biting down at his lower lip, worrying at the skin with his teeth. Jenos knows that look; contemplative, distant. He hates that look. He’d seen it on Nizer’s face too much in those early days after Chronos’s fall.

“D id you stare so much before? Or is this a new development?”

Jenos shrugs, “About as recent as you being able to hold back.”

“Guns aren’t my style,” Baldor replies, “Whether I’m shooting someone or beating them with it.”

They both know that the only reason that they’re speaking is to fill the silence that hangs between them. Jenos knows that, if they had another option, then they wouldn’t choose to exchange words at all.

He gets up, testing his weight on his bad leg, and switched on the small television. Even the most inane soap opera would be preferable to this awkward silence. The place seems to only have one channel, which is currently showing the local news.

The reporter, with a completely solemn face, is reporting on a personal scandal of some politician who’d been caught having an affair with one of his secretaries. It’s such a normal thing to see on the news that it’s absurd to see it in these abnormal times.

He glances at Baldor and the pair of them can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

When Rinslet came back, Baldor had dozed off, one arm tucked under his head and the other wrapped around his scarred stomach. Jenos has taken the small armchair by the window, flicking through the old newspapers that were piled on the coffee table in front of him. He’s moved the vase of flowers off of the table to make room for the paper.

“I’ve never seen him sleep so soundly before,” Rinslet says, dumping her bags on the floor and tossing the cap aside, allowing her still damp hair to fall down to her shoulders.

“He’s like a rabbit,” Jenos says, turning the page of the newspaper, “Only sleeps properly when he feels safe. It’s weird.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Baldor murmurs, drowsy and muffled.

Rinslet just smiles and draws a pack of cards out of her pocket, “Either of you two know how to play Cheat?”

When neither Number gives her an answer, she takes a seat on the end of the bed, nudging Baldor to sit up to make space. When Jenos joins them, she starts dealing out the cards, trying to keep the number of cards each as even as possible.

“The goal,” she says, shuffling and organising her own cards, “Is to try and get rid of all your cards. When you put a card down, you say the rank. If someone else thinks you’re lying about what card you put down, they call cheat.”

Baldor frowns, “What’s the point in that?”

“Passing time.”

They end up playing card games until the room starts going dark, ranging from Crazy Eights to Blackjack. Rinslet ends up lobbing both Jokers at Jenos’s head because of one too many awful jokes. Jenos tucks the sprig of mistletoe from the flower vase behinds Baldor’s ear, telling him it was for good luck before he bursts out laughing at Baldor’s annoyed expression.

It all provides a good, welcome distraction from the world outside, from the world that’s out to get them. It proves to be their last good time.

 

* * *

 

They’re a week into their stay at the motel when Baldor ventures out into the town, looking out for the launderette. Rinslet’s sent him on the errand of getting clothes washed, banishing him from the room while she tried getting in contact with some of her old acquaintances.

He leans against the washing machine while it rumbles and shakes. He’s found that one of the most effective ways of getting information is just by people watching; information about what sort of town it was, the mood of the place, the comings and goings of its residents.

He’s paying particular attention to the middle aged couple to his right. The woman is contentedly putting their washing into the machine while the man read out from a newspaper, the headline declaring, “ _Suspected Chronos Numbers Escape Capture.”_

“I don’t know if I can believe that these Numbers existed,” the man is saying, “Seems too much like an awful movie, you know?”

Baldor self consciously turns his collar up, using it to hide the tattoo on the side of his neck. The couple doesn’t seem to have noticed him, however. The woman stands up straight, shutting the door of the washing machine and setting the timer.

“I don’t really care,” she says, “Never bothered with them before, not bothered by them now. All I care about is whether or not you and I can keep our jobs; ever since this Chronos apparently collapsed, the economy’s been in the shits.”

The man huffs and folds his newspaper, “Where do you think they would have gone? If it’s all true, I mean. I’d have fled the country myself.”

The woman shrugs, “Who knows?”

She picks up her handbag and checks her watch before the pair of them leave the launderette. Baldor rubs at the tattoo on his neck, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. He’d felt secure in this town before but, suddenly, he feels on edge and uncertain. Thankfully, the machine behind him stops and starts beeping to signal that it’s finished and he quickly empties it, dumping the washing into a bag before tipping it into a dryer.

The sooner he gets back to the motel, the better.

When he returns, he finds Jenos standing outside of the motel’s front entrance, smoking. Plumes of silvery smoke twist up towards the cloudy sky.

“I didn’t think you smoked,” Baldor says, dropping the bag of laundry at his feet.

“I do,” Jenos replies, “Socially.”

“This isn’t exactly what I’d call social smoking.”

“We’re socialising now. Rinslet and I were socialising before. Social smoking.”

“Pedantic bastard,” Baldor mutters. Jenos grins around his cigarette.

Someone slams into his back, knocking him into Jenos. He hears Jenos fall back against the wall and the other Number’s cursing. The cigarette drops to be ground into an ashy pile on the floor. Baldor twists to face whatever had hit him and a fist crunches against his cheekbone, knocking him down. He presses one hand against the bruise forming on his cheek and turns to glare.

Kranz stands over him and he can only stare. Apart from his pallor, Kranz looks in good health, in a dark grey uniform, oddly reminiscent of a police or ranger’s uniform. He has new scars patterning his hands and forearms, a long pale slash along his forearm drawing Baldor’s eye. Baldor had thought him dead and now he’s furious.

His shoulder slams into Kranz’s sternum, using all the force of his pent up anger. Kranz stumbles back and Baldor, at the back of his mind, knows that the force should have done more than caused a stumble. Kranz had always been bigger than him but he isn’t made of steel.

A pair of hands grip his shoulders and he’s thrown back down onto the ground, the breath knocked out of him, Kranz straddling his hips. Looking up at him, Baldor can see that his eyes are no longer glassy with blindness. However, they aren’t the light blue that Baldor remembers. Instead, the pupils are so dilated that his eyes are black and the sclera bloodshot. There’s a look in them that’s empty and eerily inhuman.

Baldor grits his teeth and headbutts Kranz in the face, striking the other on the nose, feeling the crunch beneath the thick bone of his forehead. Kranz jerks back from him, blood dripping from his nose. Rather than shifting him, all Baldor’s managed to achieve for himself is a sore head, since Kranz recovers quickly and moves to press his hands against Baldor’s throat.

“You son of a bitch,” Baldor rasps, grinning manically, “Treacherous bastard.”

Something flickers in those black eyes and Kranz digs his thumbs into the soft flesh under Baldor’s jaw, just over his pulse point, and Baldor’s breath catches in his throat. He wonders where Jenos is, an edge of panic creeping into his mind. He can’t be killed here, not at Kranz’s hands.

 Suddenly, Kranz is yanked back, his hands moving from Baldor’s throat to grasp at the shining silver wires that are wrapped around his arm, pulling him back. Jenos uses the wall to support himself and Excelion gleams in the afternoon sun.

“Nice to see you Kranz,” he says. Kranz’s eyes narrow and he moves off of Baldor to advance on the other Number instead. Jenos barely sees him; instead, he looks over at the woman who’s frozen in terror on the nearby pavement, “You need to leave! Now!”

He ducks out of the way and Kranz’s fist ends up crunching against the brick wall. Jenos side steps away, hampered by his bad leg, while Baldor gets back to his feet, rubbing at his sore throat. He faces Kranz, his eyes blazing. Excelion’s wires unravel from Kranz’s arm, thin strands of silver slithering through the air. Kranz’s gaze slides from Jenos and back to Baldor and that glimmer of humanity vanishes from his eyes. Baldor knows that look.

Kranz has locked onto his target. With no weapons and no space for a proper brawl, Baldor bolts.

He leaps over the wall that rings the motel and he can hear Kranz coming behind him; he turns to see Kranz vaulting over the wall. His heart’s in his throat and his pulse thunders in his ears. He’s seen what Kranz is capable of and he doesn’t fancy being on the receiving end.

He skids to a halt when he gets to an empty car park, wheeling to face Kranz in the open space. From this distance, Kranz’s eyes look more like empty pits rather than black and wet. It’s chilling to look at.

Baldor braces against the blow before grabbing hold of Kranz’s arm as leverage, pulling the other man closer to land a hit against Kranz’s jaw. Something clicks in Kranz’s neck as his head’s jerked to the side. Kranz grimaces but he clamps a hand over Baldor’s wrist and twists. Baldor feels something give and a sharp pain races up his arm. He throws himself to the ground, wincing at the pain that lances through his arm, and drags Kranz down with him. Quickly, he shoves Kranz onto his back and pins the other Number down, glaring down at those inky, oil slick eyes.

“Where have you been?” he snarls, “Where did you disappear to?”

All of his fury and frustration is starting to bubble up in his chest. While he’d been bleeding out on the dirt, Kranz had vanished into the aether, only to re-emerge after months of uncertainty. It’s a bizarre betrayal from the closest person in his life and, while he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, it _hurts._

Kranz just looks up at him and he twitches in surprise when he feels a hand against the back of his neck. The touch is gentle and barely there and Baldor feels his breathing hitch. The emptiness in Kranz’s eyes shifts to make room for an odd sadness. For a moment, the pair of them stay that way, with Baldor gripping Kranz’s shoulders and Kranz caressing the back of his neck. To anyone who didn’t know the circumstance, it could have been seen as being tender.

The moment’s shattered when Kranz seizes the collar of Baldor’s shirt and uses it to yank him off, throwing him down to the ground so he can get up. Before Baldor can get to his feet, Kranz has hauled him up, his hands squeezing Baldor’s wrists with a strength that feels like it could turn bones to powder.

“What’s gotten into you?” Baldor asks, fighting to keep his voice level.

The hollow look has returned to Kranz’s eyes. He looks like there isn’t anything really occupying his body, as if he’s completely empty.

“You’re my mission,” Kranz speaks for the first time, his voice as cold and empty as his eyes.

Without the use of his hands, Baldor’s left only with his feet. He grinds the heel of his boot against the arch of Kranz’s foot, making Kranz hiss in pain. In retaliation, Kranz tightens his grip and Baldor feels something shift and pop in his wrist, eliciting a small sound of pain. Kranz’s face is less impassive, more pitying, but he still seems as distant and untouchable as the moon. Baldor frowns when he sees the thick band of black leather that’s encircling Kranz’s neck. A silver ring for a chain glints against the leather.

He hears footsteps thumping along the bitumen and he turns, not sure what he’s expecting. The police, maybe, called by a report from a frightened resident. Instead, he comes face to face with the barrel of the rifle, cradled in the arms of one of Creed’s foot soldiers.

“All right, Maduke,” the soldier says, pressing the end of the gun against Baldor’s temple, “You can let go now.”

Slowly, Kranz releases his hold on Baldor’s wrists. Baldor glares at him, fixing him with the most venomous look he can muster while more the Shooting Star unit materialise from the surrounding buildings. He curses himself for not noticing them as one of them twists his arms behind his back, locking them into place with cuffs.

Kranz doesn’t even react when one of the soldiers musses his blond hair, claps him on the back. The Kranz that Baldor remembers barely tolerated anyone touching him, let alone anyone working with an enemy. He watches with vacant eyes and Baldor feels a sense of pity for him, near smothered by anger.

 What had they _done_ to him?


	13. Creatures of Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes stumble a certain resistance movement

" _This here's the manticore. Man's head, lion's body, tail of a scorpion. Captured at midnight, eating werewolves to sweeten its breath. Creatures of night, brought to light."_

* * *

Rinslet fidgets behind the wheel of the car, parked underneath a sweeping oak tree. The roots claw and twist out of the earth like thin, winding fingers. The tree stands in the front garden of an old abandoned house, looming over the worn cracked driveway like a green storm cloud. The garden itself is overgrown with spongy green grass and vines thread through the walls of the house like green veins.

She'd come here after Jenos had called her from a pay phone, telling her that they need to leave again and reeling off a postcode, telling her to meet him there. It had been such a quick call that she hadn't even had time to be angry or surprised but there'd been such a note of urgency in his voice that she'd packed up and left without question.

The wind whispers secrets through the leaves overhead and Rinslet rubs her arms, suddenly feeling a chill. Jenos still hasn't arrived, she has no idea what's happened to Baldor and she'd starting to worry.

A knock on the window makes her jump, startled, and when she looks round she sees a bloody smear on the window. Jenos grins weakly at her and she quickly unlocks the doors, allowing him to open the passenger door and collapse on the passenger seat.

Dark red is spreading across his shoulder, seeping into the cloth of his shirt from an injury in his shoulder. One hand is coated in scarlet.

"What happened?!" she asks, aghast.

"Lucky shot," Jenos replies, his face white, "I'll live, don't worry. I think I know somewhere safe to go."

Rinslet opens her mouth but quickly closes it again, starting up the car and inching out back onto the road. The trees overhead cast dappled light over the interior of the car and dust whirls in the sun. Jenos leans his head back on the seat behind him, his breathing rapid, his teeth clenched in pain.

"So where am I headed?" she asks, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, "You have to give me a clue."

"There's an old military bunker a couple of towns over," Jenos says between quick breaths, "It's in Apostle heartland but only high ups in Chronos knew it was there. Creed shouldn't know about it. We can get to it through one of the hidden entrances, way out in the sticks."

"Must be a big place."

"Sephiria used to say it was like a town in and of itself. I don't know why it was built."

He falls into silence then, looking out of the bloodied window at the trees that slowly slip away to be replaced by stretching fields and flowering meadows. He only speaks to give her directions.

By the time Rinslet leaves the motorway and the car starts winding along twisting country roads, Jenos's face is completely drained of colour. It looks like the blood that's meant to be colouring his face is slowly seeping into his shirt. Every bump and jolt makes him grimace.

"Do you recognise any of this?" Rinslet asks, concerned when his eyes fall shut.

Jenos blinks blearily at the passing countryside, "We're getting there. Don't worry."

When the road ends in an empty space in front of some caves, Rinslet eases the car to stop and puts on the handbrake, gravel crunching under the tyres.

"Well, I can't go any further," Rinslet says, turning off the engine, "This it?"

Jenos gives the barest of nods, "Looks like."

Rinslet opens the car door and her boots crunched on the gravel beneath her. The only sound is the murmur of the wind and the sweetness of birdsong. Behind her, she hears Jenos get out of the car on his side. She doesn't want to think that they might, finally, be somewhere safe; the last times she'd thought that, the Apostles had found them. It's as if the thought and feeling of safety has become a curse.

"Where to now?" she asks, swivelling to face him.

"Through there," Jenos replies, nodding towards the caves, pulling Excelion out of his pocket.

"You had it with you the whole time?" she asks, full of disbelief, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Of course I had it," Jenos says, offering an apologetic smile, one that was weak from pain, "What did you think I went back into that apartment for?"

Rinslet sighs before she locks the car and follows him into the cave. His limp has gotten worse and the blood that drops from his shoulder gleams dark and wet in the light that floods the first few steps into the cave. Rinslet jogs to catch up with him and catches hold of his sleeve, stopping him in his tracks.

"I'll go in front," she says, drawing her pistol out of her bag, "It's safer. I don't care what you say, you're in no fit state to be right in the firing line if anything comes."

To her surprise, Jenos offers none of the resistance she'd been expecting. Instead, he pulls away from her and gestures for her to walk on ahead. Rinslet eyes the injury on his shoulder. He doesn't look like he'll last much longer. She curses herself for not thinking to get him medical care in their rush to get away.

"How long do we have to go?" she asks when she sets off through the cave again.

"Not far," the uneven tread of Jenos's limping echoes of off the cave walls, "You'll trip over it soon enough."

As the cave grows darker and they leave the entrance further behind, Rinslet finds herself clinging to Jenos's hand, terrified of losing him in the dark as his steps start getting slower. She can feel the blood drying and flaking on his fingers and palm and refuses to let it bother her.

In the end, it's not the door to a bunker that trips her in the dark; it's a thick wire, strung across the floor of a cave that sends her toppling. She loses hold of the gun and it bounces away, clattering as it vanished into the dark. Her hold on Jenos brings him down with her and, for the first time, she hears him cry out in pain as he lands on his injured shoulder.

Beams of light flash across her eyes and Rinslet raises her free hand to cover her eyes; her other hand tightens its grip on Jenos. She feels him squeeze back as he moves to prop himself back up again.

"Who are you?" the muzzle of a gun presses against Rinslet's head, "Quickly now."

"I'm Chronos Number VII," Jenos butts in before Rinslet can say anything, his voice wheezy and strained. He raises Excelion to show the numeral on the back, "Jenos Hazard. We came here looking for help."

Rinslet shrinks back slightly when a woman shoulders her rifle and steps forward to examine the number. She can feel Jenos trembling alongside her. The woman's torch beams sweeps over them, taking in the still bleeding injury and Rinslet's ashen face.

"I think," she says, beckoning the others towards her, "That we need to get the doc."

* * *

When Jenos had said that the bunker was like an underground town, Rinslet hadn't really believed it. She'd thought that it would be impossible to build something so big underground and not have people know about it, that it wouldn't be able to sustain itself.

It isn't often that Rinslet Walker admits to being wrong but the bunker was one of those occasions.

She leans against the wall and looks in amazement at the map of the complex; the map was big enough to take up space from floor to ceiling. While a lot of the areas, particularly the lower levels, are marked as inaccessible, the main level is still vast and sprawling. It manages to fit in a hospital, extensive living quarters, a dining area and an armoury.

Rinslet's impressed, to say the least. She's never going to doubt Chronos's architectural capabilities again.

Someone whistles at her from down the hall and she turns to see Jenos leaning out of one of the doorways. His shoulder is wrapped in a bulky white bandage and someone's managed to find a new cane for him. The colour's starting to return to his face again and the shaking has stopped.

"What is it?" she asks when she approaches him.

"The doc says he wants to see you," he replies, "Says there's some explaining to do."

She grimaces, "Well, that doesn't sound ominous. Best get with this over with."

She loops an arm around his waist and draws him close, resting her head on his shoulder. She doesn't care about any teasing she might get; she's just relieved to see him alive and in one piece. Jenos wraps one arm around her shoulders and the pair of them stay there for a few moments, blocking the doorway.

They're alive; that's all that matters.

"You all right, Rins?" Jenos asks when she pulls away, "I don't think you've ever done that before."

Rinslet half shrugs, "Don't expect it too much; just special occasions. So, what does this guy want to talk about?"

"Just boring things," Jenos says, limping down the dark hallway, "You know, clearing up rumours, talking about Chronos Numbers, hearing about counterattack plans. Stuff like that?"

"Rumours?" Rinslet slows her pace for him, "What kinds?"

"What kind of stuff Creed's been doing as he moves," he frowns, "Some of the equipment these people have is scary. I mean, with some of this stuff, they could take a chunk out of the Apostles; maybe not overrun them completely, what with the superior numbers and the Tao. But still, these people are pretty impressive."

"If that's the case, why do they hide here?"

"Who knows?" he stops outside a door that stands ajar, "Maybe that's what we're going to find out."

Rinslet's stomach feels unsettled. Counterattacks, weapons impressive enough that a  _Chronos Number_ found scary and a bunker that had tunnels that ran for miles crouched just beneath the surface of the earth? And these people were the preferred alternative to what was happening in the real world? She'd never thought her life would turn out to be this chaotic and out of her control.

She knows that she's been sucked into a conflict that's charging up, soon to come to a boil again. She just hopes that the world won't be dragged down further because of it.


	14. Interlude: Dead Man Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one of our heroes seems to be losing his grip on reality

" _Are there really spells to make a skull speak?" Molly asked. The magician stretched out his fingers and gave her a small, competent smile._

" _There are spells to make everything speak. The master wizards were great listeners, and they devised ways to charm all things of the world, living and dead, into talking to them."_

* * *

There are bells ringing.

Nizer prefers to stay on the floor, sitting against the wall and facing the door. Even he's not sure why he started but he senses that it's starting to become habit. He's not sure how long he's been here; there's no clock of any kind in the cell and the guards don't speak to him so he has no real way of finding out what the date is. He wonders if Creed's forgotten he's here.

"Well, this is a shitty situation you've gotten yourself in, huh?"

Nizer groans, "Shut up."

"Someone has to talk to you," there's the hint of a smile in Ash's voice, "No one else is. Except yourself of course."

"I'm better conversation than you."

He turns his head and something flickers in the corner of his eye. Ash is no longer alongside him. Since when did Ash move so quickly and silently? He's a shimmer of silver and then he's on Nizer's other side, somewhere behind him, always just out of sight but never out of earshot. He's always louder than the bells. Nizer wonders how Creed can sleep when those fucking bells are always ringing. Like church bells and it feels as if they sound throughout the entire complex. Maybe it's some new, bizarre way of intimidating people into submission.

"Yeah, right," Ash snorts, "You're smarter than that Nizer.  _Think."_

"You've changed your tune a little," Nizer says, finding himself annoyed, "Just a little while ago, you were saying I'm an idiot."

"Oh, you are," Ash says. Nizer hears him sigh, "Not about everything, though. Just about letting yourself get captured and leaving your only living friend on the run with a gammy leg."

"That was not my fault and you know it."

Nizer pauses. Outside of the door, through the small gap towards the top, he can hear the guards murmuring to each other, the shift of their armour as they move to peer through the gap. The bells' tolling has started to dim, much to Nizer's relief.

( _"Does he always talk to himself like that?"_

" _Not before. Doctor says it's normal for 'em to go a little bit crazy at first."_

" _That's fucked up, let me just say that.")_

"…You know, killing the guard would be a good start," Ash pipes up. Out of the corner of his eye, Nizer can almost see him gesture at the door, "Baby steps, Nizer."

"I know," Nizer sighs.

He switches off the side of his brain that's paying attention to Ash; the other Number isn't saying anything he doesn't know already. Some small, rational part of his brain tells him it's because Ash is a hallucination, he's not real, but Nizer brushes that off. He has more to worry about than the ghosts in his head.

Instead, he turns his thoughts towards the other Numbers: Train Heartnet, who creeps around the complex at night, skulking in the shadows, slipping through the building like a ghost; Baldor, who's still as brutal as ever; Jenos, who can't walk properly because of what the Apostles did; Sephiria, who's in the ground and Kranz, who Creed wants broken.

Then again, he hasn't seen Kranz in a while…

"Why is that, Nizer?" Ash says, "And don't say it's because you're both prisoners; you know he's usually trotted out by now. So what's changed?"

"Maybe he's dead. He did get his knife, after all."

"I doubt it," Ash says, "You'd know if he was."

"How can you be so sure?" Nizer sits up straighter, popping a crick out of his spine, "You have insight into how the Apostles and Creed work now?"

"No, but I do have insight into  _you._ I know what  _you_ know and what  _you_ think; that's how I know that you don't really think anything like that's happened to him," Ash hesitates, "But that's not what you should be thinking about. Like I said, you should be making escape plans."

"I know," Nizer groans, pressing his hands against his ears to block out the sounds of those damn bells, "If you know what I know, quit harping on about it."

"If you know, then do something!" Ash's voice rings clear as day, despite the bells, "Don't just sit here and think about the shit that's going on with Kranz. There are people out there who need you which means that you need to get yourself together and think of a way to get the fuck out of here."

"I can't if you don't  _shut up!"_ Nizer snaps, swinging round to face Ash but, again, the other dances away out of sight.  _Hallucination,_ the rational part of his brain whispers.

( _"I knew a guy who talked to himself like that once. He ended up killing himself."_

" _I think the other one tried that once. You know, the one that master Creed's sent out to track down those other two Numbers?"_

" _Crazy ain't the word for that one, believe me. Too weak for him. This one's tame in comparison."_

" _I know; saw the bastard fight. Near enough tore a guy apart in the arena. I'm glad that stopped before I was thrown against him, let me tell you.")_

But that part of his brain is starting to shrink away, little by little. Something, probably from that twisted doctor, has crawled into his system, digging its spidery legs into his brain and eating away at pieces of him. It's a red web that drops over his vision sometimes, blurs his memories. In the early days of that red web, he'd lashed out, striking the guards and making them wary of coming into his cell, of approaching him; after breaking one man's jaw, the only person who really comes near him is the woman who'd shot him in the castle, the woman who created escape portals for herself when she felt in danger.

Nizer suspects the water but restricting his intake only serves to make his mouth dry and thick, to create a headache that thuds between his temples. So he drinks and he tries to ignore the bells and ignores the fact that Ash is a bad sign.

Is it giving up? He's not sure.

"Course it's giving up," Ash whispers, "Don't let them in your mind, Nizer."

"But you're here," Nizer says, standing up despite the wash of dizziness, "So maybe it's not  _all_  them."

Ash chuckles, "Maybe I was always there. But not like this; this is them. Remember the people who are still alive, Nizer, and get out for them."

Nizer nods. He has his own score to settle with Creed, which should be more than enough motivation to get out of this cell. Hell, figure out how to get out and he could maybe get the help of Heartnet and Kranz, take out a few guards, show Creed that Chronos Numbers won't bend so easily. It's farfetched, sure, but it's a nice thought. He stretches and sighs. The bells clang and toll, sounding their ghoulish alarm and driving that wedge between Nizer and sanity. If those bells would just stop, let him think clearly, then he'd be able to get through this. Ash spoke sense, most of the time; in his lucid moments, Nizer figures that maybe Ash is the reasonable part of his brain trying to get through to him in his most unreasonable moments, when the red web descends and Nizer doesn't really remember who he is.

The sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway draws his attention away from those ringing bells. He approaches the door and peers through the gap, out into the hall. A pair of soldiers march past, a slight figure caught between them. Nizer catches sight of a mop of black hair and a glimpse of blue eyes before a guard notices him and strikes the door to drive him back; the clang of the truncheon against the door and the bells reverberating in his head causes him to flinch, recoil.

"Recognise him, Nizer?" Ash asks, feigning curiosity.

Nizer frowns, "Yeah, I think so. But shouldn't you know that?"

( _"Did you see his eyes? That was fucking creepy; worse than hearing him talk to himself."_

" _Think that happened to the other one too. Black and empty; that ain't human. Never seen anything like that before.")_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing this fanfic for a year now. That's...kinda scary. Where did that year go?


	15. The Outlaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one of our heroes is on the wrong end of a fight.

_Voices murmured somewhere ahead, sullen as robbed bees. As they drew nearer, Schmendrick thought he could make out a woman's tone among them. Then his cheek felt firelight and he looked up. They had halted in a small clearing where another ten or twelve men sat around a campfire, fretting and grumbling._

* * *

No matter where he goes, Shao Lee doesn't feel safe anymore. There's always a prickling beneath his skin, as if eyes are on him, even when he's underground, when he's hidden by an unfamiliar face. He keeps his head down, slinking in shadows to avoid stares, and keeping his head down when he's above ground. He doesn't take the liquidation work, not anymore. The first that he'd done had nearly gotten him caught, escaping capture by the man's security by a whisper. Not to mention, that look of disapproval and almost-hurt on Eve's face.

He only takes the exchange work now, ferrying information from person to person. The work itself is easy enough; it's weeding out those who want to intercept him that's the problem.

He pulls the hat down lower over his coppery hair, shadowing his eyes, and pulls his jacket closer. He's incredibly conscious of the tattoo between his collar bones, feeling it almost prickle, as if it sends out a beacon to everyone who wanted his skin: " _Hello, I'm a Chronos Number, ferrying messages that hold the plans to start your downfall!"_

There are two things he can't cover up with a disguise, a sleight of hand. The first is the remains of his arm; he can cover up scars and marks but a missing limb is too much, even for him. The second is his Chronos tattoo, because covering that up feels almost like a betrayal.

Both of them mark him out as someone remarkable. Both mark him as someone to be watched.

He ducks into a narrow side street, the thick envelope he was carrying digging its corner into his stomach. He pauses for a moment and looks back. The same man and woman who'd been trailing him had followed him into the street, only just managing to blend back into the crowd.

"So I'm being stalked," Shao mutters, glad that he's on his own today. He tucks the envelope under his stump and feels in his pocket for the pills he'd been given:  _for just in case, we can't risk them finding out about us._

The man's familiar somehow. He has a face that's Shao Lee swears he's seen before but has never paid attention to, or at least one that easily fades from memory no matter how long it's studied.

He doesn't notice the man in front of him until they collide. Shao Lee, unable to catch himself, ends up toppling backwards, landing hard on his tailbone. The envelope flies from his grip as he throws his arm out to try and catch himself. His hat was knocked askew and he's startled at the sight of red hair falling over his face, since he'd all but forgotten all the details of his mask.

"Jesus, sorry," the man said, grabbing hold of Shao Lee's arm and hauling back up to his feet, "Completely lost in my own head. You all right?"

"Yeah," Shao Lee says, stooping to pick up the envelope, "I'm fine."

He pushes the coppery hair out of his face and scans the crowd, searching for the people who'd been trailing him. His heart leaps into his throat when he can't find them but he fixes his face into a smile.

"I should have watched where I was going," he says, "Thanks and sorry."

The man waves a hand and moves off, while Shao Lee allows his face to drop. His stomach knots and tightens. Where are they? He clutches the envelope tightly to his chest and carries on to the meet point, where he'll drop the envelope off and be able to return to the relative safety of the bunker.

He tears his eyes away from the crowd and suddenly wishes that he'd managed to scrounge up some headphones; they'd prove risky in the event that someone is following him, yes, but at least they'd help him to ignore that awful prickling that jabbed pins of nerves into his spine.

The place he's heading for is a small flat above a tattoo parlour, where he'll drop of his envelope and that'll be the end of this job for him. He pushes open the glass-panelled door, the letterbox choked with junk mail, and steps into the hallway. He takes off his hat and hangs it on a peg on the wall. The stairs creak beneath the threadbare carpet and the thin fabric is dotted with dark red. At the top of the stairs, the door to the flat hangs open and everything is deadly silent apart from the creak of the floor beneath Shao Lee's feet. It's a silence that hangs heavy and foreboding.

He pauses on the stairs, his breath caught in his throat, listening for any movement. The slightest sound (birds on the roof, the windowpanes creaking, even the thuds of his own heartbeat) seem exaggerated but there isn't anything from the flat. Everything's setting off warning bells and Shao Lee pushes the envelope into the pocket of his coat, trading his grip on the creased paper for the silk smoothness of Seiren.

He barely even hears the buzz as he steps over the threshold.

"What the hell?!"

The small living room is chaos, with the carpet torn and the furniture broken. A small round hole in the wall tells Shao Lee that gun has been fired. He can see a glimpse of the kitchen through a narrow doorway; the linoleum floor is covered in a crust of dried blood, dark red in colour. There's no sign of the man he's meant to see.

He's peering into the kitchen when he hears the air tear apart behind him, like a cloth being ripped. He whips round in time to see the arm appear in the doorway, a pistol aimed at his head. He ducks and rolls to avoid the bullet and it lodges in the kitchen cabinet. Seiren snakes along the floor.

"You are a fast mover," a woman emerges from the hole that's developed in the empty space of the doorway, pale green hair falling down around her face, "You arrived much earlier than we expected."

Shao Lee grips Seiren and draws it closer, prepared to use it at a moment's notice. The enveloped bumps against his leg.

"Who are you?" he says, his eyes darting around the living room, looking for an escape or a shield. The portal behind the woman is swirling and dark and it's jarring to look at.

"I think the bigger question is who are you?" The woman said, "And what's in that envelope that you're carrying."

Shao feels his blood go cold. The envelope contains details about sabotage on the Apostles, meant to be passed from hand to hand until they reach one of Sephiria's contacts who'd organise it all. Should this woman get her hands on it, she'd have information on counter operations, key locations, the identity of their inside man. She'd be able to follow the trail back to the bunker, back to Sephiria and Jenos, back to Eve.

If he can't get out of this victorious, he'll get it destroyed.

She raises the gun again and he dives out of the way, rolling and twisting, whipping Seiren towards her face. The gold X on one end strikes her in the face with a crunch and he quickly yanks Seiren back to keep it out of her hands. There's a sound like plastic tearing and the woman thrusts her hand into a second portal. Before Shao Lee can move, a hand closes around his ankle, tripping him when he tries to bolt away. Behind her, he can see the figures of soldiers emerging in the portal.

He slams his heel down on her fingers and scrambles way when her hand flinches back. He staggers on his feet slightly, checking that the envelope was still in place. His stump knocks against the wall behind him. He barely has enough time to bring Seiren up to defend against the bullets before the soldiers raise their guns and open fire. He flinches instinctively with every impact.

One of the soldiers trades his gun for a knife and charges. Shao Lee drops Seiren and yanks the envelope out of his pocket. He kicks Seiren into place so that the soldier's feet slip out from underneath him, throwing him off balance. Shao Lee drops the envelope as well, kicking the soldier's feet from under him, and he drops to the ground the avoid the swing from the other soldier's truncheon. He seizes the back of the fallen soldier's head and slams the man's face against the ground, hearing the crunch of bone against the wooden floor, before snatching the knife from his hand. He uses it to slash at the envelope, destroying the contents.

The soldier grabs at Shao Lee's hair, yanking him upwards. Shao Lee cries out in pain but he doesn't let go of the knife. He stabs upwards, hoping to strike something. The blade scrapes against the mask and sinks into the eye hole, popping the plastic cover and the man shrieks, letting go of Shao Lee's hair to clutch at his face. The knife protrudes from the mask, surrounded by cherry red blood. Shao Lee jerks away and snatches up Seiren, turning to face the woman.

"Impressive," she says, turning the gun so she's holding it by the barrel, "For a man with one arm. But I've had enough of this."

She opens another portal and Shao Lee whips around to see the butt of the gun coming towards his head.


	16. The Witch

_The unicorn replied, “Do not boast, old woman. Your death sits in that cage and hears you.”_

_“Yes,” Mommy Fortuna said calmly. “But at least I know where it is. You were out on the road hunting for your own death.” She laughed again. “And I know where that one is too. But I spared you the finding of it, and you should be grateful for that.”_

* * *

 

 

The air is heavy with the chemical stink of disinfectant, the cold smell of sterile cleanliness. It brings to mind brightly lit halls, polished floors, hushed voices and white bandages over ruined eyes---

Baldor shakes his head; he’s not going to think about that. Considering the pain in his wrists, Kranz certainly isn’t going to be any help so dwelling on him would be pointless. Besides, it seems as if Creed keeps him on a tight choke chain. Even if he wasn’t under the Apostle’s thumb, it’s not possible for him to be useful.

So Baldor’s on his own; that’s fine. He’s done solo missions before.

He sits up, reaching up to check if his cheek is still bleeding from where he’d been hit before being knocked out. His fingers recoil from the respirator that covers his mouth and nose and he scowls.

“Forgot about that.”

The room he’s in is completely white, with doors that sealed closed with a hiss and a ceiling made of glass. There are small valves in the walls. He feels like he’s in a zoo of some kind, like he’s on display. The room has a slight chemical smell but it’s not one that Baldor can pin down. The smell sticks to the back of his throat and lingers there.

“Well, we had you put out for a while there, didn’t we?”

Baldor looks up. The voice, while tinny through speakers, is still cold and snide. The Doctor stands on a balcony above the glass ceiling, looking down into the white cell. His expression is smug and he stands alone.

“I’m a little relieved, I must say,” he says, leaning on the balcony rail, “I didn’t want to postpone my testing any more than I already had to.”

Baldor scowls, “You already had  a test subject. I call him Kranz.”

“Oh, him,” the Doctor waves a hand, “I’m not one to run more than one experiment on one subject at a time. Though I must say, he proved easier to bend than I thought. Perhaps I’m just far better at what I do than I realised.”

He feels a flicker of annoyance at that. He remembers seeing that control over Kranz break for a moment before he was caught. He’s not about to let the Doctor get a big head over something that’s false.

“Don’t boast too much,” he snaps, “Piss him enough and he’ll hopefully take your head off.”

The Doctor’s smug grin curls, “At least I know where my death would be coming from. You, on the other hand, and that other Number were looking for your own in all the wrong places. I know where yours is and I spared you from it for a little while longer. No need to thank me.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

The Doctor shrugs and twirls a small control between his fingers, “You’re not very interesting, are you?”

“Not my fucking job.”

He sees the Doctor’s eyebrow raise and the man presses down on the button on the control. There’s a low hiss of air and that strange chemical stink starts to fill the air, noticeable despite the respirator. Baldor frowns and looks at the vents in the walls; he’d assumed that they’d just been for ventilation, that this cell had been for isolation more than anything.

“You’re my third test for this particular experiment,” the Doctor says, leaning forward to look through the glass ceiling, “Here’s hoping that you survive; the others didn’t last long.”

 

* * *

 

 

In his time here, Kranz has retaught himself how to pick locks. He uses the tip of Mars and a couple of hair pins salvaged from where they’ve been dropped, jiggling the mechanism of the lock on his cell door until it clicks open. He’s been moved from the cells that only open with a code to the ones that open with the turn of a key. Creed’s become confident enough in his control over Kranz to have him moved to lower security cells.

“I’m not going to complain,” Kranz mutters, “It makes my life easier.”

He works at the lock for a few moments and is rewarded for his efforts when the lock clicks and springs open. He pauses before he opens the door, listening out for any guards approaching. The hallway beyond is silent. The guards are really only present to ensure that no one attempts an escape; so long as he can look like he’s under control, the guards shouldn’t bother him.

Besides, it’s not as if he’s trying to escape.

The quiet presses hard against his ears; he’s still more finely tuned to senses other than sight. Carefully, he makes his way down the corridor, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible. The red web still clings to his mind, digging its claws into his head. He stands for a moment, pushing the red web away and pulling back the memories from before.

“You were a Chronos Number, Kranz,” he says quietly, “You’re not _theirs._ ”

The thick collar around his neck feels like he’s carrying a glaring contradiction to that statement. But he’ never been one to give a damn about contradictions; he knows what he means and that’s all that matters.

The door that he’s looking for is right at the end of the corridor. It’s tightly sealed against the frame and it only opens with a passcode. Kranz, in his lucid moments after the red web, had spied the code one time and etched it onto his memory.

“There are some benefits,” he says, flipping the cover on the keypad, “To being Creed’s puppet.”

The light flashes green and the catch holding the door closed clicks open. Kranz doesn’t allow himself to be too self-congratulatory; this isn’t the hard part, far from it. The hard part is waiting on the other side of the door.

Baldor doesn’t even turn his head when the door opens. His hands are cuffed behind his back, a move that Kranz knows is to keep him from hurting himself and messing with the Doctor’s experiments. He sits slouched against the far wall, one knee brought up to his chest, his cheek pressed against his knee. He looks ill.

“What?” he asks, tone sullen.

“You’re not sulking, are you Baldorias?”

Almost immediately, every muscle in Baldor’s body tenses. Kranz sees his jaw clench in anger. He’s not going to let it deter him too much; he knew this would be the hard part. He’s here to give his best at making an apology, whether Baldor listens or not.

“You’re not here to rattle off an Apostle spiel, are you?” Baldor says. Kranz can almost see the storm clouds gathering with every word. “Because if you are, I’m not interested and you can fuck off.”

“I’m not,” Kranz says. He sits opposite Baldor, leaning against the door, legs tucked against his chest to keep out of Baldor’s space, “And I won’t say you should know that---”

“Good,” Baldor cuts him off, “Because everything I thought I knew about you, you threw out of the fucking window when you threw your lot in with Creed.”

Kranz feels a flare of anger, “Not by choice!”

“But it’s still your fault I’m here!” Baldor snaps, lifting his head for the first time since Kranz had opened the door, “And it’s your fault that this happened!”

His eyes are glassy and blank, the sclera reddened and shot through with blood. He doesn’t look at Kranz; instead, he stares at a point on the wall over Kranz’s left shoulder. It’s with a sickening jolt that Kranz realises that Baldor hadn’t refused to look at him because he was angry; it’s because he couldn’t see.

A horrible scratch at the base of his brain tells him that this isn’t just one of the Doctor’s experiments. This is something more personal.

The red web is creeping back across his vision and the headache that comes with it is starting to thump against his eyes. There’s a bell ringing above, signalling the hour and a change in guards. He stands up, legs shaking slightly, one hand pressed against his temple. Baldor’s blank gaze follows him up.

“You’re leaving already?”

“You’re the one who told me to fuck off.”

“I figured you’d be more stubborn.”

There’s still an edge of anger simmering along Baldor’s words but it’s less pronounced. That’s unusual; usually, if Baldor’s angry about something, he can hold on to it forever, using it as fuel for when he needed to work himself up into a fury. He doesn’t let things go, ever.

“You should at least give me an explanation for why the fuck you’re doing what Creed wants you to.”

Kranz sighs, rubbing at his temple, the thumping pain growing stronger, “I don’t…I don’t know.  Sometimes I just don’t know what I’m doing. It’s like I’m split in two; one is me and the other is under the Doctor’s control.”

Baldor’s face creases in disgust, “Hasn’t got a fucking name, huh?”

“Not one I know.”

“Arrogant shit.”

The red web itches lower and Kranz gropes for the keypad behind him, pressing in the code to open the door. There are footsteps coming towards them, the first round of guards coming on their patrol. The Doctor’s with them; he can tell. He has to leave before the red web comes back entirely and he blacks out.

“Oi, Kranz.”

The sound of his name gives him pause, pushes back the red for a moment, “What?”

Baldor’s sightless eyes stare at a point just right of Kranz’s hip, “Tear that fucker apart for me when you get the chance.”


	17. The Midnight Carnival

_The lead wagon was driven by a squat old woman and it bore signs on its shrouded sides that said in big letters: Mommy Fortuna’s Midnight Carnival. And below, in smaller print: **Creatures of night, brought to light.**_

****

* * *

 

 

Shao Lee feels a feeling of sick dread curdling in his stomach. It’s been three days since his trial, three days since that sentencing, and he’s only now starting to feel fear. He shifted, groaning slightly at the pain in his cracked ribs, and listens as the clock outside his cell ticks away the minutes, the hours.

“I’m going to die,” he says to no one, licking his dry lips.

He leans his head on the wall behind him and closes his eyes. Everything hurts: his ribs are cracked; there’s a deep lash across his shoulders; his arm is green with bruises and he doesn’t dare move his right leg if he doesn’t have to. Mystifyingly, his face is untouched; he wonders if this is an ego thing for Creed, to have a Chronos Number be recognisable when he’s up against that wall.

An image of that blood soaked day with the sweepers flashes into his mind and he winces. He still blames himself for that. A small, wry smile appears on his face and he lets out a dark chuckle, despite the pain in his ribs.

“Karma’s caught up to me then,” he said, “Sorry Eve.”

The lock click on the cell door with a dull thunk and Shao Lee swallows down the nausea that coils up his throat. He refuses to look up and finds himself staring at the black boots of Charden Flamberg. Hot, sour anger boils in his chest and he scowls.

“There’s no delaying it, Number,” Charden says, “No matter how much you sulk.”

A hand grips the back of his shirt, hauling him up to his feet, and he hisses at the jolt of pain up his injured leg. A second soldier slams the cell door shut once he’s pulled out of it before shouting down the hallway, “Dead man walking!”

“Who are you shouting at?” Shao Lee says dryly, “The empty cell at the end of the corridor, on the left?”

That earns him a sharp look from Flamberg and a hit to the back of his head from the soldier gripping his arm. He limps down the corridor, dragged along by the soldiers, being marched along behind Flamberg. The corridor is not very long, with the prison area itself not being very large; it has ten standard cells and two enforced ones, at least as far as Shao Lee has counted.

In the courtyard, he refuses to look anywhere but straight ahead. He doesn’t let himself register the row of soldiers waiting for him, their rifles gleaming in the morning sun. He doesn’t acknowledge Creed, who sits behind the row, flanked by Echidna Parass on his left and Train Heartnet on his right. The only person he looks at is Kranz; the other Number stands as rigid as a statue, expression stony, his eyes glinting black in the pale sun. There’s a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, bright blood coating his upper lip, and a bruise on his right cheek. Nothing changes in his expression even as Shao Lee meets his eyes.

‘ _Good luck, Kranz,’_ Shao Lee thinks as he’s marched to stand in front of a wall, ‘ _You’ll need it.’_

He straightens his back and looks straight ahead, looking through the gap between two soldiers to look Creed right in the eye. He’s not going to let Creed see that he’s afraid; Creed’s frightened enough people, crushed them under his heel that they don’t stand up against him. Creed stands up and Heartnet’s eyes follow him the whole time.

Creed stands in front of him, back to the soldiers. He takes hold of Shao Lee’s chin and forces him to look him in the eye.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” he says.

“You made that clear,” Shao Lee says coldly, “Even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t change anything.”

“Of course not. Things only change here when I want them to.”

Shao Lee can feel Creed’s thumb against his cheek and it makes his insides crawl. He fixes Creed with his most venomous glare before he spits in the man’s face. For a moment, Creed looks taken aback but then his face morphs into a mask of ugly fury. He wrenches at the top buttons of Shao Lee’s shirt, exposing the numeral tattoo between his collar bones.

He jabs at the X before turning to the soldiers behind him, “You have your target there; make sure you hit it!”

At that, he wipes the spit off of his face and marches back, collapsing into his seat again. He lifts on hand in a signal and the soldiers all lift their rifles. Shao Lee feels the bottom of his stomach drop away and his heart thumping in his ears but his fear seems muted.

He had, after all, known this was coming.

Heartnet has his eyes fixed on his boots and Kranz has turned his face away, fists clenched at his sides. His shoulders are stiff.

“Let this act as a warning,” Creed says, hand still in the air, “Since the first wasn’t enough. Let anyone who stands against the Apostles of the Stars look to you as an example.”

Shao Lee blocks him out and looks away, out towards the western wall. If he hasn’t lost track of the days and the date is what he thinks it is…

Creed brings his hand down and the rifles go off at the same time as the cannon.

 


	18. Hagsgate (Part One)

_Here is there and high is low; all may be undone. What is true, no two men know – what is gone is gone._

* * *

 

 

Kranz looked towards the sound of the explosion. Creed’s stood up, face twisted in fury. The air reeks of blood and gunpowder and Kranz refuses to look at the blood splattered against the wall, pooling on the paved courtyard.

Creed draws his sword and brandishes it at the far wall, “I want every soldier over there to investigate at once!”

He turns and leaves the courtyard, trailed by Echidna. Kranz goes to follow him but a hand clamps down on his wrist. Flamberg presses a finger to his mouth to indicate that Kranz should keep his mouth shut. Instead, he pushes Kranz towards the door that Number X had been brought out of. Heartnet follows, glancing over his shoulder. Underneath the red fog, Kranz feels that the two of them are in on something that he’s completely in the dark about.

“Go and get the others,” Flamberg orders, “Heartnet, you know where to go.”

Heartnet nods while Flamberg backs out of the corridor, shutting the door behind him. Kranz reaches out and seizes hold of Heartnet’s wrist, the bones grinding together under his hand. His scowl could curdle storm clouds.

“What are you planning?”

Heartnet winces and prises Kranz’s fingers off of his wrist, “Just go and get Baldor, OK?”

“And where are you going?”

Heartnet takes a ring of keys out of his coat pocket and shakes it, causing the keys to rattle and jingle, the sound echoing off of the whitewashed walls, “I have to let Nizer out.”

He heads along the corridor and Kranz only watches mutely for a moment as he sorts through the keys to find the right one. He shakes off the red web and heads towards the high security cell, keying in the passcode as if in a daze.

“Is that Kranz?” Baldor says when the door opens, “Or my executioner?”

“Your eyes are still gone?”

“Well, you’re either a big dark blur or a big white blur. It’s an improvement.”

Kranz crouched down and cut the ties on the other’s wrists, pulling him to his feet. Baldor sways slightly but he stays up.

“Oi,” he says, shoving Kranz’s shoulder when Kranz turns to leave, “The fuck is going on?”

“This,” Heartnet interrupts triumphantly from the corridor, “Is a prison break!”

Baldor rolls his eyes and Kranz hears him call Heartnet an idiot under his breath but he feels his way out into the corridor anyway, ignoring Kranz. He nearly ends up walking into Nizer, who looks ill and twitchy.

“What’s your plan, Heartnet?” Baldor folds his arms and looks at a stretch of ceiling above Heartnet’s head, “Or is this one of Creed’s ideas?”

“This has nothing to do with Creed,” Heartnet taps the empty holster on his leg, “I don’t know about you lot, but I’m gonna raid the armoury to get Hades back.”

 

* * *

 

 

 Jenos isn’t exactly sure where he is or what he’s doing. He pushes at the panel over his head, where he’d been directed to, and is relieved when it actually moves. He clambers out of the tunnel, his knee protesting the whole time. He’d always had a special skill at sneaking into places he wasn’t supposed to be; it was how he’d met Rinslet, after all. Of course, all of that had been before his knee had been ruined.

“Oi, Jenos!” Rinslet hisses, “Help us up!”

Jenos stands up and upturns his cane, lowering the handle for Rinslet to grasp. She clung to it as he pulled her up enough for her to clamber out with ease and she turns to help Eve out after her. The three of them had been sent in whilst Sephiria and the others came in from the outside, told to spring the other Numbers out of prison, if they were still alive. Failing that, they’d been told to sabotage Creed’s weapons as best they could.

“I need to find Train,” Eve says, brushing dust off of her hair, “He’ll be in Creed’s rooms, won’t he?”

“You know where those are?” Rinslet says, bundling her hair into a ponytail.

“I saw the blueprints we were given. I can find them.”

Rinslet looks between Eve and Jenos. Jenos leans heavily on the cane, his knee still protesting at his clambering out of a dark tunnel.

“I’m gonna go with her,” Rinslet leans in to tell him. Jenos shrugs.

“Go for it, I’ll be fine on my own,” he says, tweaking a strand of hair that escaped her ponytail, “Chronos Number, remember?”

She bats his hand away before following after Eve. Jenos uses his cane to nudge the panel back into place on the floor before he creeps along the hallway, ducking into shadows to peer along hallways in case of danger. Everything seems strangely deserted. In truth, he’s not really looking for Creed’s soldiers or even any of the Apostles; he just wants to avoid Kranz. He knows that he got lucky last time.

When the hallway stays still and silent, he creeps out as best he can. The sound of his cane echoes off of the walls and makes him flinch. If he gets the chance, he’s going to track down the soldier who clubbed him and ruin his legs, just for a taste of petty revenge.

He pulls the folded photo out of his pocket and studies it for a moment; it’s grainy and dark, clearly taken at night so the photographer didn’t get caught, but it’s enough for him to get an idea of what to look for. A plain door, marked with a white cross, which leads down beneath the castle.

“Start at the beginning,” Jenos mutters, stuffing the photo back into his pocket, “And carry on until you reach the end.”

He turns the corner and abruptly stops. He blinks once, twice, three times but the door doesn’t vanish. The wall it’s set in looks difference from the photograph and his suspicion spikes through the roof, along with his apprehension.  He steps forward and nudges the door open with the end of his cane. The door swings open with a rush of cold. Jenos feels it bite into his face and raise the hairs up and down his arms. He takes a step into the narrow corridor and the suspicious feeling won’t leave the roots of his spine.

His steps don’t resound like they should and the prickling continues up and down his neck. He turns to look behind him to see the corridor stretching on infinitely, the doorway a tiny speck of light at the end of the tunnel.

A rational voice that sounds oddly like Rinslet warns him that he’s walked straight into a trap. Jenos grits his teeth and hefts his cane, holding it in one hand ready to use the heavier handle as a club. The narrow hallway makes it difficult to use Excelion. He hears footsteps coming along the corridor behind him and when he turns, he comes face to face with an advancing wall of glittering scalpels.

 

* * *

 

 

Kranz works at the lock to the armoury, listening to the murmured conversation behind him. Baldor’s barely spoken to him this whole time and Nizer seems to be sank in his own thoughts, stewing in his own mind and mostly ignorant to anything that Heartnet’s saying. He stands alongside the armoury door, leaning against the wall, examining the ceiling. Kranz bites his lip and smothers his growing frustration as the lock refuses to cooperate properly. He doesn’t know what to expect on the other side of the door; with his luck, there’ll be armed guards, listening to his lock pick and waiting.

His heart leaps into his throat and stays there when the lock finally clicks open and he slowly pushes the door open. The armoury beyond is still and dark. Kranz reaches around the doorframe to find the light switch and flicked it on, flooding the armoury with dazzling white light.

“Good job, Kranz,” Heartnet says, thumping Kranz on the back, “We pick up our stuff and then we all go our separate ways, yeah?”

Kranz scowls as he straightens. Nizer smirks, “Go our separate ways and never have to see each other again.”

“That sounds very tempting,” Kranz mutters, seizing hold of Baldor’s arm and dragging him forward, shoving him into the armoury. He can hear Heartnet rummaging through a shelf, looking for Hades. He looks at Nizer, “Keep an eye out.”

Nizer gives the barest nod and Kranz ducks into the armoury. Almost immediately, he recoils. It’s not so much an armoury as a trophy room. There’s no organisation at all, with various weapons stacked against the walls. Some of them are bloodied, the stains sinking into metal and wood, staining them a dark rust colour. A glint of gold catches his eye and his breathing catches in his throat slightly. He strides straight past Heartnet, ignoring Baldor’s quirked eyebrow and questioning expression.

Emilio’s bow comes free with one tug. The string is still intact and stretched taut; holding it up to the light, he can see the dark red that stains the string, giving away where Emilio’s fingers had starting bleeding. There are red smears on the bow itself, stark and dark against the silvery orichalcum. He flips the bow over and runs his thumb over the III carved into the bow. He can see a quiver of gold arrows leaning against the wall and he sighs, going to retrieve it with the bow still in hand.

“What have you found?” Heartnet calls out to him. Kranz turns to see Heartnet turning Hades over in his hands. Glancing at Baldor, he can tell that the other man is listening based on how he crooked his head.

He held the bow up, “Nodens.”

Baldor’s expression twitches slightly, “So they got Emilio as well.”

“Looks like,” Kranz says. He glances down to see Castor and Pollux at Baldor’s feet, “At least Nizer will be happy.”

He forces Baldor to take hold of Nodens and stoops to retrieve Dioskouroi. Baldor traces the shape of the bow before he turns to Kranz.

“The fuck do you expect me to do with this?”

“Hit people with it.”

Heartnet snorts, “You two are strategic geniuses.”

He pushes the armoury door aside again. Outside, the corridor is deserted with no sign of Nizer. Heartnet curses under his breath but Kranz stays quiet; he tips his head to the side, listening.

“What are you listening to?” Baldor asks, coming up alongside him. Kranz just pressed a hand over Baldor’s mouth to silence him, ignoring the angry protests.

“He’s in the next corridor,” he says, “And he’s pissed.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Apostle’s long legs still twitch slightly. Nizer ties off the end of the rope to the bottom rail of the balcony, feeling the swinging weight of the Apostle pulling the rope at his hands. Slathky, they’d called him. His face was purpled and his eyes, glassy, were bright red with burst blood vessels.

The black, prickling anger has started to subside but something still digs at the back of Nizer’s mind. He finishes off the knot and leaves the Apostle to swing. Neither of the two soldiers stir; both of them are collapsed into heaps on the ground, blood splattered over the walls near them, pooling into the thin carpet. His hands are sticky with it and he feels disgust coiling in his stomach. He hates having to fight barehanded.

They have Jenos.

“Oi, Nizer,” Heartnet says, dropping Dioskouroi at Nizer’s feet when he finds him, “You run off and I miss all the fun. What gives?”

Nizer stoops to retrieve Castor and Pollux, “Where are the other two?” He fights to keep his tone level.

“Off to wreak some havoc,” Heartnet says, mock fondness plastered in his expression, “They’re so good at that, even when they hate each other.” He considers Nizer, “What are you all worked up over?”

He doesn’t mention the rope that hangs and swings with the weight of the dead Apostle, though Nizer’s sure he noticed. Castor and Pollux are a familiar weight in his hands and he shifts his grip on Castor’s handle; it’s icy cold and feels oddly brittle and fragile. He narrows his eyes.

“You were in on this, weren’t you?” he gestures towards the high arching window, where the sky is still blanked by smoke, “You knew this would happen today.”

Heartnet doesn’t even fake sheepishness, “Guilty as charged. Helped plan it, even. Had to go through Charden, of course, but I still helped.”

That gives Nizer pause, “What’s his motivation?”

Heartnet shrugs, “Ask him.” He pauses, “Don’t bother talking to Kyoko about it though. I can’t figure her out; my guess is, she’s just sticking with Charden.”

“I don’t care about her.”

“Ooh, that’s cold.”

“It’s the truth.”

Heartnet’s eyes slide towards the rope, “You’re not going to go along with the plan, are you?”

“I don’t know it,” Nizer says. He hefts Pollux up and rests it on his shoulder, “So no. Besides, I have a Doctor I need to take care of.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jenos finds himself staring at a ceiling of scalpels. It’s better than the alternative, which is shooting death glares at a doctor who would be more human if he’d been built out of scrap metal and wires. The doctor in question is busying himself with his syringes and needles.

“I’ll give you some credit,” the Doctor says, “You’re the only one with the sense to come quietly.”

“Come quiet or be impaled by scalpels,” Jenos’s tone is more clipped than he planned, “Sense doesn’t come into it.”

Oddly enough, the room’s set up reminds him of a dentist, with the singular chair and sterile smell. Of course, none of his memories of the dentist include being strapped to the chair. He’s starting to lose feeling in his right arm where it’s lashed to the chair.

“It’s a disappointment that you split off from the other two,” the Doctor says, syringe in hand as he searches through the rows of small plastic bottles on his bench, “The bioweapon would have meant for some very interesting research, don’t you think?” He heaves a sigh, “I’ll find her when this is over again; I have time.”

He picks out one of the bottles and fills the syringe with the contents, “What do you know about tuberculosis?” When Jenos remains silent, he just shrugs, “You Numbers have proved surprisingly hardy. Number VIII managed to survive something that killed three of Creed’s soldiers, despite the fact that he was exposed longer. Did they give you something at Chronos? Nothing I found indicates that to be the case.”

“What did you do with Baldor?” Jenos asks, steering away from Chronos.

“Testing something for crowd control,” the Doctor says dismissively, “Not something I’m passionate about, really. But it got under the other one’s skin.”

At least Baldor’s still alive. It’s more than can be said for the others and it gives some hope that Shao Lee will have survived his own capture by the Apostles. After all, Shao is much more likely to try and keep out of trouble than Baldor is.

The Doctor turns, syringe in one hand and the tiny, empty bottle in the other. He holds the bottle up so that Jenos can see the words printed on the label: _mycobacterium tuberculosis._ Jenos looks from the bottle to the needle and cocks an eyebrow.

“Am I meant to be impressed?”

“There is one flaw with my God’s Breath nanomachines,” the Doctor says, “And that’s illness. A lot of the data I used in their development came from Doctor Lunatique and she never accounted for how nanomachines react to illness. And I, being on a tight schedule, never had the time to study in depth the effects of illness so I didn’t have a chance to alter that data to include it.” He pauses, “Nor did I have a good subject.”

Jenos doesn’t say anything. The Doctor tuts and presses a button on the tape recorder behind him. He tugs Jenos’s sleeve up past his elbow and Jenos has to resist thrashing against the restraints in an attempt to land a punch on that smug face; he can get out of this. He just needs to keep his head.

“This subject,” the Doctor narrates, as he pushes the needle into Jenos’s arm, emptying the syringe, “Is infected with a strain of mycobacterium tuberculosis.”

The needle withdraws and the Doctor discards it, not even flinching under Jenos’s glare. He strips off the rubber gloves and continues, “He’ll be kept under observation until symptoms show, in order to gather data on how serious illness can be countered with nanomachines.”

He glances at Jenos again as he clicks the recorder off, “When it finishes you off, I’ll have Number V killed after, for a comparison. He’s a failed experiment anyway.”

“You’re one sick fuck.”

“I’m everything that science could be,” the Doctor replies, his eyes gleaming, “And everything that it _will_ be, one day. Imagine the discoveries that coul—“

He’s cut off when he’s slammed in the face, collapsing into a heap on his side. Nizer stands over him, Dioskouroi in hand, blazing furious. Jenos hears the Doctor groan but he couldn’t care less. Relief floods through him and he grins.

“That’s my Nizer,” he says, “My knight in shining armour.”

Nizer clocks him properly and drops Dioskouroi. Keeping one foot on the Doctor’s ankle to keep him from getting up again, he leans across to undo the restraints on Jenos’s right arm, freeing his hand so Jenos can work on undoing the knots over his left. Whilst Jenos frees himself, Nizer increases the pressure on the Doctor’s ankle; something cracks and the Doctor howls.

“What did he do to you?” Nizer asks once he’s sure the Doctor won’t be fleeing anywhere. Jenos leans heavily on his uninjured leg and rubs his arm.

“TB,” he says, “I’ll be fine.”

Nizer’s expression darkens and he turns his glare on the Doctor, who’s dragged himself away from the two Numbers, his broken ankle already darkening and swelling. There’s a bruise already starting to discolour his cheek. He pushes his glasses up his nose and grins.

“Oh, it will be a while before either of you are all right,” he says, “You’re infected with TB and you,” he points at Nizer, “Are hearing voices.”

Jenos glances at Nizer to see irritation thunder across the other Number’s face. Nizer retrieves Dioskouroi from the ground whilst Jenos fetches Excelion from the shelf the Doctor had put it. His cane’s gone but he’ll manage.

“Nizer,” he says, tilting his head to the other, “You’ve been here longer. What happens to this world if this sick bastard loses consciousness?”

“No idea,” Nizer replies after a pause, “How about you and I, hmm, form a hypothesis and test it together?”

Jenos grins and looks down at the Doctor, satisfied with the flicker of fear he sees crossing the man’s face, “I think that sounds like a fantastic idea.”

 


	19. Hagsgate (Part Two)

_You whom Haggard holds in thrall, share his feast and share his fall. You shall see your fortune flower, ‘til the torrent takes the tower. Yet none but one of Hagsgate town may bring the castle swirling down._

* * *

 

This part of Creed’s fortress has always been too quiet, even for Kranz. He’s only been here a couple of times and every time is a shrouded in fog. He can’t remember _why_ he’d been brought here, only that he had been, and he certainly doesn’t remember feeling angry about being here; in fact, he doesn’t remember feeling much of anything.

“Oi,” Baldor speaks to him for the first time since they’d split from the others, “What happened to your arm?”

“I thought you couldn’t see.”

“I can’t,” Baldor says dryly, “I noticed when you were trying to strangle me.”

Kranz halts and Baldor walks straight into him. He turns, puzzled, and looks into Baldor’s scowling face, “I tried to strangle you?”

Baldor gapes, “You _seriously_ don’t remember that?”

“I don’t remember a lot of what I’ve done here.”

And it’s the truth. He remembers the first couple of months, and he still remembers the flogging ( _he has the scars stretched across his back to remind him)_ and he remembers Nizer patching him up. However, he doesn’t remember much beyond that. He remembers the red web and the push to run, to go and chase after whoever Creed pointed to. He frowns and digs in his memory banks to produce a brief recollection of Baldor punching him in the face.

“Now you mention it, I do remember slightly,” he says, twisting Mars in his hands. He continues along the corridor, “You asked about my arm? Blame Creed.”

“I blame Creed for most things.”

“We agree? Finally, we can start rebuilding our relationship.”

Kranz isn’t looking at him but he feels Baldor’s expression darken, “Don’t get your hopes up.”

He sighs but keeps quiet on it; he’ll be the first to admit that he never had his hopes high in the first place. Baldor’s infamous for holding a grudge, especially against people he considers traitors; Kranz knows how high on that list he is now, and how high he’ll stay on it. He won’t be surprised if he never redeems himself.

He can’t help but flinch when Baldor grabs hold of his wrist and yanks him to a stop, “What?”

“Get your head out of the clouds,” Baldor snaps, “Someone’s coming.”

Kranz listens and picks up the sound of voices on the other side of the door. He frowns; they’re women’s voices, and the only women who come here are part of Creed’s inner circle and they surely wouldn’t be lurking here with the Apostles under attack.

“Stay here,” he tells Baldor, “Until I know who it is.”

“Stay here, Baldor. Come with me, Baldor. Do as I say, Baldor. Accept that I stabbed you, Baldor. Trust me even though I’ve betrayed you twice, Baldor.”

“Now you’re being petty. Get yourself killed; see if I care.”

Kranz steps forward and peers around the slightly-ajar door; he can only see the woman’s back.

She shrieks when she feels Mars at her back.

 

* * *

 

 

The Imagine Blade sings when it strikes Ichthus and Creed feels his heart sing along with it. Sephiria hops backwards but there’s a trace of pain across her face; it’s clear that no matter how much she was altered the heal well, no matter how much work her wonder doctor had done, her back’s never healed properly.

“What’s the matter, Sephiria?” he taunts, turning on his heel for a backhand strike, “Become too rusty?”

Sephiria glares and slashes at him. Ichthus opens his chest and the gush of warm blood does nothing to deter him. If anything, it serves to spur him on further. Every strike forces Sephiria to step back, driving her towards the wall.

“Maybe you should have stayed beneath the rubble of Chronos,” he says, “It would have been a better grave than the one you’ll get here!”

“Don’t be so cocky,” Sephiria retorts, “I’ve put more men in their graves than I care to count.”

“I stopped counting after Number II,” Creed says, hoping to coax a little anger onto Sephiria’s face.

It works.

The sound that she makes is a shriek of fury and her blows start coming faster, harder. Creed knows how much it stings her to hear of her Numbers’ deaths; it’s a weapon against her, just like Kranz’s betrayal of everything he’d stood for can be used as efficiently as the whip, as a hot knife against skin.

It’s power and he revels in it.

Now it’s Creed being driven back, parrying strike after strike. He thrills in it; it’s been too long since he’s had a good fight. Even Train’s started to lose his lustre, as Creed’s old taunts and jabs to work him up into a state start to become stale and blunt. He’s getting bored with it and this new fight is making his blood fizz again.

He leads her up the stairs, not missing a step, luring her into a position where he had the higher ground, the upper hand. He can’t see anything that might be lurking behind him but he hardly cares. Sephiria can be fast but, unlike him, she can’t afford to be reckless. He can and he intends to use it to his advantage.

He’s nearly to the top of the staircase when the gun goes off and the bullet finds home in his leg.

 

* * *

 

 

“You really shouldn’t have hit him.”

Kranz, now nursing a sore head and bruises courtesy of the bioweapon and Baldor, hangs back and listens. The woman, it turns out, is one Rinslet Walker, cat burglar extraordinaire and the woman who had stitched Baldor back up again.

“It was very therapeutic,” Baldor says, “Besides, she wasn’t doing it right.”

The bioweapon glares at him, “You were doing it the exact same way I was.”

Rinslet’s hand moves to the small of her back, where Mars had broken the skin, “You were both very helpful. Thank you very much.”

Kranz twists Mars in his hands, “Am I here? I think I am.”

Rinslet turns, “I would apologise but you tried to stab me.”

“You did actually stab me,” Baldor chimes in. Kranz gives the bioweapon a pointed look.

“I’ve never tried to stab you,” he says, “But I do remember you throwing me into a building.”

She scowls, “You tried to kill Train.”

“He _is_ very annoying.”

“Finally, something we agree on,” Baldor says dryly.

A sharp elbow in Baldor’s ribs shuts him up. With a pang of envy, Kranz notices how Rinslet keeps hold of Baldor’s elbow, tugging him away from walls and pillars, and he doesn’t try to pull away from her. Even before, there’d been an unspoken rule between them: no touching until the danger’s passed.

He looks over Rinslet’s shoulder and, with a jolt, realises that they’re leaving Creed’s tower. Rather than grasping for Baldor, like he normally would, he instead grabs hold of the bioweapon’s shoulder, pulling her to a stop.

“What?” she snaps.

“Why are you leaving?” he asks, “Whatever you were looking for in here, you won’t find it out there.”

“Train’s not here,” she says, pulling her arm free, “So he’ll be out there.”

“Then maybe I should go first,” he says, and that piques Baldor’s interest. Both he and Rinslet turn, her eyebrow cocked. Kranz coughs, “You need a spotter. And you get to throw me in the firing line if anything goes wrong.” He shrugs, “A win for all of us.”

Something akin to pity skims across Rinslet Walker’s face but Baldor keeps his impassive.

“Good idea,” Baldor says, “Always useful to be shown around by someone who knows this place as intimately as I’m sure you do.”

Kranz doesn’t say anything. Instead, he slips past the bioweapon and through the door that leads to the staircase, eager to leave this place.

His vision is starting to go red.

 

* * *

 

 

Maybe shooting Creed in the leg to announce his big entrance hadn’t been the best idea. Train dodges another lunge and he feels the blade’s teeth nick his shoulder. He’s only saved from another biting blow when Creed has to pivot to fend off a strike from the furious Sephiria. The plan to take him on two at once had taken into account the Imagine Blade, but never the idea that Creed just wouldn’t fucking die.

Whilst Sephiria draws Creed away from him, Train crouches behind the rubble of a wall, Hades shaking in his hand. Through the space where the wall used to be, he can smell the reek of gunpowder, under laid by the smell of sea salt. His fingers trembled slightly as he withdrew his last bullet, the only one that remained of the secret stash that he’d manage to keep hidden all these months. A burst bullet, one that, hopefully, should cripple Creed long enough to restrain him.

The key word being hopefully; legs were such an awkward target.

Train winces when he hears a loud crunch and then the thud of a body hitting the ground. He peers around the pillar to see Sephiria crumpled on the ground, a smear of red across the floor. Sephiria tries to prop herself up and Train spots the deep gash across her torso that bleeds red over her shirt front.

“Oh, Sephiria,” Creed says, the anger melting into patronising slime, “You rose from the dead only to fall back again.” He lifts the blade, the teeth glinting in the dull light of the sun, not even noticing Train stand behind him, “I’ll be sure to let Kranz know how you died.”

Before he can bring the blade down for the killing blow, Train slams into him, his shoulder digging into the ridge of Creed’s spine. The pair of them topple over Sephiria and the Imagine Blade skids across the floor, away from Creed, slowly reverting to its first form.

Creed’s elbow comes up and slams into Train’s cheek, knocking him off of his back. Rather than retrieve the Imagine Blade, Creed shoves Train to his back and straddles his hips, hands at his throat.

“Everything I did for you,” Creed snarls, “Everything I did, changing the world for you, and you throw your lot in with _her._ ”

“I’m not fighting for you or her,” Train rasps, “I’m fighting for myself, and for everyone else that you’ve hurt.”

He doesn’t say Saya’s name but he knows that Creed picks up on the implication. His hands tighten and black and white spots burst across Train’s vision. His throat feels like it’s trapped in an iron vice. Hades slips in his hand; he can’t keep a firm grip on it to swing it at Creed’s temple. Something pops in his eye and his ears roar.

Creed suddenly jerks off of him and Train lurches to the side, sucking in air between bruising coughs. When his vision slowly starts to clear, he looks up to see Creed moving like a puppet with no strings, his face twisted in rage. Sephiria still curls up around her injury, as if she’s trying to protect it from getting worse.

“Charden!” Creed trembles with fury, “What are you doing?!”

Veins popped blue and bulging in his neck and arms. He’s forced backwards, every step jittery and unnatural. Train stands and tightens his grip on Hades while Sephiria struggles to stand, face tight with pain as the movement stretches the wound across her chest.

“I made it clear from the start,” Charden says, “That you and I had very different goals.” He continues drawing Creed back, keeping his attention off of Train and Sephiria, “My goal was to free the world from Chronos; I never said anything about letting another organisation fills it shoes. You should have expected this.”

Creed grits his teeth and it looks for a moment that he’s about to break free. Only one look from Sephiria is all Train needs; he cocks Hades before Creed can move and pulls the trigger.

The bullet strikes Creed’s knee and it goes off with a burst of blood and Creed’s howl of agony. The man’s leg collapses underneath him and the floor glistens red. Charden moves in to restrain Creed whilst Kyoko darts from behind him to snatch up the Imagine Blade, holding it as if it was venomous.

Train lets out a sigh and holsters Hades, tearing his eyes away from the blood shining on the floor. Some small part of him wonders if he should have aimed for the head instead.

“That’s it then,” he says, turning to Sephiria who’s hunched on her knees. He offers her a hand to help her stand, “It’s over.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a hole in the wall of the rose garden. Red and white flowers are crushed under the piles of rubble, with only those furthest from the wall managing to survive. For Kranz, it’s surreal to think that only a few months ago, Creed had approached him here, the only man completely in control.

The hole leads out onto a cliff, the land coming to a sudden halt and dropping off down towards the sea. Sephiria’s ordered the Apostles to be stood on the cliff edge; with the empty sea at their backs and armed soldiers at their fronts, there’s nowhere else for them to run. Creed’s at the head of them, hands tied behind his back so tightly that his fingertips have gone red. He’s somehow managed to lose one of his boots and there’s a burnt hole in his trousers, above his left knee.

“Heartnet apparently tried to blow his leg off,” Nizer says around the cigarette he’s managed to coax out of one of the soldiers, “Only did half the job though. And the fucker managed to heal up right quick with those nanomachines.”

“Maybe Heartnet should have tried to blow his head up instead,” Kranz says, “Then he might have done the job properly.”

“He doesn’t kill people. You know that.”

Kranz’s hand tightens around the frag grenade he’d lifted, “Maybe he should start again.”

If Nizer notices the angry edge to his tone or the hardness in his eyes, he doesn’t say anything on it. Instead, he looks over towards the arc of blue sky that can be seen through the hole in the wall, “So what are you going to do now?”

“Knowing me? What I’m told.”

Kranz lets his gaze wander. The bioweapon, Eve she insists but it doesn’t matter to him what she’s called, has finally been reunited with Heartnet, both of them relatively unscathed. Sephiria’s being patched up, white bandages swathing her upper body, whilst Baldor and Jenos have both vanished into nowhere.

“And you?” he says, “What will happen with you now?”

“Hopefully, I should stop hearing voices,” Nizer fishes in his pockets for his lighter but comes up with nothing, “Stop seeing things.”

Kranz tunes him out and barely even notices when Nizer leaves him. He finds himself watching the Apostles, something scratching at the back of his head. There’s still no sign of Baldor.

“Kranz!” Creed’s shout cuts the air, and it’s as if he’s reached his desperate last resort. Kranz turns to see a frantic look in the other man’s eyes, “Kranz, come here! Cut me loose!”

With only a glance at Sephiria, he squares his shoulders and heads towards the cliff. Creed’s desperation turns to triumph and Kranz feels a prickling anger beneath his skin when Creed looks towards Sephiria.

By the time someone noticed him, he’d already clambered through the gaping hole in the wall and is nearly at Creed’s side. Someone shouts orders for him to stop, for someone to get him under control.

“I always have an ace up my sleeve,” Creed says when Kranz reaches him. He twists his neck to look at the ropes holding his hands together.

Kranz simply grabs hold of his jaw and jams the grenade between his teeth,” And you’re not the only one.”

He backs Creed up towards the edge of the cliff, holding him only long enough to yank the pin free before he shoves Creed over the cliff edge. Kranz glances over his shoulder to see Heartnet skid to a stop, his face frozen in horror. He looks down to see Creed plummeting towards the churning sea; the grenade finally goes off halfway down the cliff with a burst of blood and smoke. The body hits the ocean with a splash of white and Kranz feels the tension runs out of his shoulders.

“Now it’s over.”


	20. Epilogue: The Beach

_“The others have gone,” she said, “They are scattered to the woods they came from, no two together, and men will not catch sight of them much more easily than if they were still in the sea. I will go back to my forest too, but I do not know if I will live contentedly there, or anywhere. I have been mortal, and some part of me is mortal yet. I am full of tears and hunger and the fear of death, though I cannot weep, and I want nothing and I cannot die. I am not like the others now, for no unicorn was ever born who could regret but I do. I regret.”_

* * *

 

 

They all end up congregating on the beach when it’s over. The sea churns-blue, white and grey-crashing down onto the pebbly shore. Nizer and Jenos are huddled together against the wind that whips off of the sea, voices drowned out by the wind; Nizer’s still looking haggard and haunted but he looks far better than he was. Baldor’s sat further along the beach, being examined by the dark-skinned doctor, head tilted up so the doctor can see his eyes. Rinslet’s at his side, chewing on her lip and watching Heartnet and the bioweapon. Heartnet’s leaning on a spade and talking to Sephiria, the bioweapon standing at the edge of the shore, waves stopping short of her toes.

Kranz stands apart from all of them. The sea washes over his bare feet and soak into the hems of his trousers but he barely notices. The wind whips his hair into his eyes and he finds that everything is slightly blurry unless he squints.

Well, it makes sense. No more Apostles means no more mad Doctor to keep him polished and drugged up as Creed’s own personal super soldier.

“Number IV,” Kranz doesn’t even flinch when Charden Flamberg approaches him. He inclines his head.

“Flamberg.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m not dead; does that count?”

“Depends,” Flamberg’s eyes examine him, safe and dry away from the sea, “Back to normal?”

“No.”

Kranz turns away from the others and walks down the beach, water splashing up, leaving spots of salt on his clothes where it dries. Flamberg follows, still keeping away from the waves. It feels oddly liberating to be here, away from the castle walls; finally, Kranz is starting to understand why Heartnet puts so much stock in freedom.

“Will you be?”

“Probably not. What does it matter to you?”

“More than you’d think,” there’s an odd tinge of guilt to Flamberg’s voice, “I should have done something sooner.”

Kranz looks at him, “To stop Creed? You should never have joined him in the first place.”

Flamberg shakes his head, “No. About the Doctor.” His face scrunches in distaste, “Bordered on a eugenicist.”

“Bordered?”

“Your friends dealt with him,” Flamberg shudders, “I’m not sure what they did to his face but it’s not there anymore.”

“Nizer and Jenos are not my friends.”

“Comrades then.”

“With Chronos gone, they’re not even that.”

A wave knocks against his knees and the fabric turns cold. The air reeks of salt. Kranz pauses to look back, wind whipping his hair into his eyes. Sephiria’s noticed his absence now and is watching him too. He can’t make out her expression but he can assume it’s her quiet, solemn expression that appears when she’s thinking.

“Maybe you should talk to her.”

Kranz gives Flamberg an incredulous look, “And what makes you think that she wants to hear what I have to say?”

Ultimately, it’s Sephiria who seeks him out first. She approaches him when he and Charden rejoin the group, breaking away from Heartnet who’s turned his attention the bioweapon.

“Captain,” Kranz says stiffly, even as Charden slips away. She doesn’t seem to be angry, though it’s always been hard to tell with her sometimes.

Her neutral expression melts into a small smile, “You stayed,” she says. She sits and folds her legs beneath her on the sand, indicating for him to join her, “Though I suppose your pride had something to do with it? Not wanting to be seen as Creed’s ilk, I mean.”

Kranz glances over at the others, “They can’t think any lower of me.”

He joins her on the ground, feeling uneasy. The others are watching; he can feel Jenos’s eyes sinking into him, and for a moment he’s relieved that Baldor can’t see. Sephiria considers him with worried eyes.

“Will you come back with us?” she asks, nodding out towards the sea, “To the mainland? We have arrangements to try and sort out all this mess that Creed’s left behind.” Her hand finds the tattoo on her forehead, “We could be Chronos again.”

Kranz rests his chin on his knees, “I don’t think I can be part of Chronos again.” At Sephiria’s puzzled look, he sighs, “I’ve been the Apostles’ toy for a little too long, don’t you think? I’m not like the others; I couldn’t hold on to myself.”

“No,” Sephiria says softly, her eyes downcast again, “I suppose not.”

They lapse back into silence, though neither one of them moves away. Sephiria frowns when she spots the collar still around Kranz’s neck and he stiffens under her touch when she looks for a way to release it. Her hands stray close to his scars.

“Can I see them?” she asks, tugging lightly on the collar of his shirt. After a moment of hesitation, Kranz nods and ducks his head so she can’t see his face.

Her hands as light as feathers, Sephiria gently lifts the back of his shirt to examine the scars left across his back by Creed. Her thumb brushes against one of the livid strokes and Kranz’s face blazes with shame. Sephiria sighs again, a mournful sound, and he feels her lean forward and press her forehead against the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” he says, and it comes out sounding slightly choked, “I let you down. And I let Chronos down.”

Sephiria doesn’t admonish him; she doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, she moves to wrap her arms around his shoulders, her cheek pressed against the crown of his head. Kranz leans forward and presses his forehead to her collar bone, closing his eyes.

“It’s all right,” she says softly, “I forgive you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re thinking,” Rinslet says, elbowing Baldor’s ribs, “That’s dangerous.”

Baldor just shoves his hands into his pockets, “I thought you’d be with Heartnet.”

“I’ll have time to talk to him later,” there’s a melancholy note to her voice, “After you get spirited off by Chronos, I might not see you again. You still owe me for those medical bills.”

“That’s all you’re here for?”

“Well, not entirely,” Rinslet says, “I was worried about you. You’re a sick fuck but I kind of got to like you a bit, in the same kind of way people come to like crocodiles or deadly snakes.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.”

“You will get paid back for the medical bills,” Baldor says, leaning against the railing, “If Sephiria doesn’t, Jenos will see to it.”

“I trust you.”

The words make his stomach curdle. He’s not sure if he can say the same for her and trust isn’t a word to be thrown around lightly. Trust is a word that concerns life and death, a word that’s built on years of comradeship and needing to work together. It’s hardly something that can be built on the idea of someone paying back a debt.

Footsteps approaching on the deck catch his attention and his grip tightens on the rail, frustrated that he has absolutely no way of knowing who it is. He stays focussed on the murkiness that makes up the sea.

“Rinslet Walker,” Sephiria says, “Can you give us a minute?”

“Captain,” Baldor says when Rinslet leaves, “You’re all right?”

“I’m alive,” Sephiria replies and she leans on the railing next to him, “And the job is done. That’s all that matters.”

He clears his throat, “You found Number X?”

“Yes,” Sephiria’s voice turns soft and mournful, “We gave him a proper grave. And his death was avenged; Creed’s dead.”

“How?”

“Kranz blew him up.”

That’s hardly the answer that Baldor had been expecting. Kranz isn’t the type to use explosives; he’s always preferred knives and other blades, weapons he can have full control over. Explosives lack the finesse that Kranz appreciates in a weapon, along with being too loud for his heightened hearing.

“That doesn’t sound like him,” he says, “He hates explosives.”

“He must have hated Creed more.”

Sephiria sighs and Baldor can picture her posture; slumped with tiredness, leaning on the rail, her eyes heavy and shadowed. He knows how much she hates losing any of the Numbers, and that Shao Lee’s death would be biting her particularly hard. The situation with Kranz would hardly have helped matters.

“What did Doctor Flint say about your eyes?” she asks eventually, “Is it permanent or…?”

“Not likely,” Baldor rubs at his eyes, “I’ll probably need glasses eventually but he says it’s not permanent.”

“Finally, some good news,” Sephiria heaves another sigh, “There’s still so much to be done.”

Baldor frowns, “What’s happening with Kranz?”

“He didn’t come with us,” Sephiria replies, “He stayed behind.”

It takes a moment for it to sink in. Kranz isn’t on the boat. Kranz isn’t coming back. Kranz has chosen to stay behind, to stay away, to stay alone. The mix of anger and hurt rises up in Baldor’s throat like a lump and he turns his face away from Sephiria, hoping that his expression doesn’t betray him.

“What’s he going to do now?” he asks stiffly.

“I don’t know,” Sephiria says. A sea wind whips through her hair and fills Baldor’s lungs with the scent of salt, “It’s all up to him; he’s free now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, here at the end of all things.
> 
> Phew. That was a long ride. Whether you started it with me or joined me somewhere along the way, I've been very glad of your company. And very grateful for it too. I had a silly little story to tell and you guys were willing (and crazy enough!) to click the little link that led to it and give it a chance. Thank you for that.
> 
> A special thank you to bunny-loverXIV for chatting to me on Tumblr about this little dog and pony show I call a fanfic; you are superb. Another shoutout to Famigirl on DeviantART for the fanart you drew; I can assure you, I squeed.
> 
> Next time on Razzaroo's fanfic experience, there should hopefully be something with a little less death. And, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for sharing a part of my life with me. I hope we all meet again somewhere in this great wide world of ice and fire.


End file.
